


Loki, that was an inappropriate use of applied physics.

by annagarny



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Genderswap, Loki is a troll, mis-aimed magic, not your usual genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not always the Avengers who get hit when something magical is aimed at them. Oftentimes they will dodge it and the spell will hit nothing but concrete or glass.</p>
<p>Or their handler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. everything went white

It was supposed to be a routine inspection. Clint, Steve and Natasha were going to check up on a report that Loki had been spotted in a part of Central park that was notorious for being difficult to get to, and Phil was with them because, well. Because the Avengers were Phil and Maria's responsibility and Maria was currently in Malibu with Stark. Thor was in New Mexico, still, helping his Lady Jane get her things packed up so that she could relocate to SHIELD HQ in Manhattan, and Banner was safe enough in his lab, especially with Stark on the other side of the continent and not actively aggravating him in an attempt to get him to 'Hulk out'.

So, Phil was half a block back, comm line active, listening to Hawkeye crack jokes about hipsters and how Loki should just swap the leather-and-metal for skinny jeans and a scarf, something about being indistinguishable with that hair and those ridiculous legs. Rogers tried to keep him quiet but Coulson knew that it was fruitless - Hawkeye would talk underwater, he had, in fact, done just that a few times just to annoy Coulson. The only method that Phil knew, for certain, that would shut him up was duct tape to the mouth and even then Clint would hum, growl and grumble as much as possible until someone tore it off. 

Usually Natasha, because she seemed to enjoy it.

Anyway. Steve, Clint and Natasha were in street clothes, because it was supposed to be a covert mission. 'Street clothes' had many different interpretations, and eventually Coulson himself had been forced to intervene, helping to convince Rogers that jeans were perfectly acceptable for such a mission. Then he'd had to talk Clint out of a so-thin-it-was-almost-see-through Rolling Stones t-shirt and into something with a collar, because the three of them needed to look like they belonged on the Upper East Side and not Brooklyn. Phil was just glad that Natasha knew how to dress for the occasion and that Clint shut up with the objections when she gave him a hard look.

"I'm keeping my Stones shirt on. I'll wear this thing over it." Clint was holding the black button-down at arms' length as if it had been doused in something foul-smelling, but shrugged into it after Natasha smacked him upside the head.

So Phil had changed out of his Dolce and into jeans, leaving his pale blue pinstriped shirt on but losing the tie, and opting for a black leather jacket that concealed his sidearm just as well as the suit jacket had. He was technically just there to monitor their communications, he didn't actually have to be in the field, but it felt good to get out of his leather shoes and into a pair of All-Stars every now and then. 

Besides, it scared the junior agents to see him looking so casual, kept them on their toes.

He was fifty feet behind Steve and Natasha, in the park proper now, they were playing the role of a couple out for a walk, while Clint had a set of earbuds in and was messing around on his cell phone about five steps behind them. The phone was actually a piece of Stark-tech that had been modified to detect the electromagnetic fields that Loki and Thor both emitted when they used their magic.

"Got something. Loki frequency. On your two o'clock, Steve." Clint muttered, and Phil turned his attention in that direction, trying to be subtle about it. 

He caught the barest glimpse of green and black, a pair of sharp eyes set beneath dark brows and there was a blinding flash of light. Steve dodged it, taking Natasha to the ground with him, and Phil moved, but too slow.

The green light hit him square in the chest and he hit the deck, the world fading to white as the pain from where his head had his concrete began to bloom.

Phil took a deep breath and promptly passed out.


	2. Tony, there was no need to break the sound barrier.

When he came to, Phil didn't open his eyes straight away. Instead, he took a few moments to try and discern where he might be, and what exactly that bolt of green light might have done to him.

There were noises, low voices, the familiar weight of a pulse monitor of the middle finger of his left hand and the accompanying beeps from the machine next to his bed. There was a sharp tang of antiseptic in the air and the sheets were scratchy against his fingertips.

Yep. Hospital. Likely New York Private, the Howard and Maria Stark Memorial Wing, not-so-subtly referred to as the Avengers Wing by the nurses, thanks to the fact that their most frequent patients and visitors were part of the Initiative.

Slowly, hoping that nobody would notice, he opened one eye, barely parting his eyelashes, and immediately wished he hadn't. 

Barton was right there, sitting at the end of his bed, cross legged, back in his Avenger uniform, bow resting across his knees. He didn't miss the movement and he smiled, just a quirk of his lips, but didn't alert anyone else.

"Hey. Feeling okay?"

The fact that Barton was being gentle with him raised an army of red flags, and Phil opened his eyes entirely, focusing on the man sitting at the end of the bed.

"Yeah, I'm-" he stopped. What the hell was wrong with his voice? He cleared this throat, tried again. "I'm feeling okay. What happened to me?" He tried to sit up a little and shook his head, coughing a little. His voice was, well, there was something wrong with it. 

And now, oh no. Barton was smiling at him, and it wasn't one of his shit-eating grins that meant something was broken. No, it a soft, pitying smile that told Phil that something was really, really wrong. 

"Uh, I might let someone else talk to you. Steve!" Clint had slid off the bed, slung his bow over his shoulder and shouted for Captain Rogers.

"Is he- is Coulson awake?" Steve rounded the curtain at the end of the bed and looked Phil right in the eye as he did so.

"Yes, I'm awake. What happened?" Phil coughed again, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with his voice.

"Uh, well. We're not exactly sure. Thor's flying back from New Mexico right now, because we think he might have a better idea, but the long and short of it is... well... um."  
"You're a chick." Barton put in.

Phil scoffed. Yeah, right. 

"Dude, take a look. You've got boobs."

Phil started to laugh again, but Barton came over and picked up his right hand, the one not anchored by a drip and a pulse monitor, and pointedly dropped it on Phil's chest. 

Phil's laughter cut off abruptly. That was not his own chest. That was - his fingers flexed and he shifted his palm, looking down and feeling his mouth fall open in complete shock.

That - those were breasts. Nice ones. Not huge, just a handful, but he withdrew his hand as if it had been scalded when he realized he was essentially feeling himself up. He paused, then lifted his hand to his chin and his fingertips tingled a little when he encountered smooth skin instead of stubble. He scrubbed his hand higher, finding smoother eyebrows and slightly longer hair, which he tugged at and then winced. Okay, so maybe this was real. 

"What in holy hell happened?" He demanded, understanding now why his voice was higher pitched than it used to be.

"It would appear that Loki affected some kind of gender inversion spell on you." Steve informed him, his voice surprisingly level and somewhat reassuring.

"Oh dear god." Phil leaned forward and buried his face in both of his hands, thumbs coming up to massage his temples in what he was certain would be a fruitless attempt at staving off a headache.

"Who else knows?" he asked, talking through his fingers, voice muffled and almost closer to his usual pitch with his head bowed like it was.

"Just us, and Fury." Clint told him.  
"Us who?"  
"Me, Steve and Tasha."  
"What about the others?"  
"Don't worry, Tony won't find out."  
"Tony won't find out what?"

Phil groaned and threw his head back on the pillows. 

"How long was I unconscious?" he asked, dreading to think.  
"Only two hours - Tony, how the hell did you get back here so fa-oh." Steve was cut-off mid sentence when Tony drew the curtain back with one gauntleted hand, revealing himself in his full Iron Man suit, visor up.  
"I got the drop on Hill the minute I heard Clint shouting about Coulson being out cold."  
"You were listening in on our comms from Malibu?"  
"Hey, everything gets routed through Stark systems, I got JARVIS to patch me in for this afternoon's recon and I'm glad I did. This is priceless." He sauntered over to the side of Phil's bed and cocked his head to one side. "You actually make a decent chick, Coulson. Never would have picked it."  
"Shut up, Stark. Rogers, get him out of here, please?"  
"Oh, come on, Steve, can't I just-" But Tony was cut off by one of Steve's hands across his mouth. Even in the armour, Steve could still lift Tony and drag him out of the room, and Tony knew better than to activate his repulsors indoors, especially in a hospital, so he allowed himself to be taken out.  
"This isn't over, Phil!" he shouted, having somehow gotten Steve to relinquish his voice, and Phil groaned again.  
"Hey, it's going to be okay."  
"Barton, stop it. Don't fucking patronize me it is not okay I have been turned into a woman!"  
"Tony was right, you are kind of hot, though."  
"Shut up, Barton."  
"Feisty, too."  
"Barton, I will choke you with my IV if you don't shut up."  
"Oh, come on, I'm trying to make you feel better, Phil."  
"Well it isn't working. Where is Thor?"  
"He's on his way back, he's got about the same airspeed as Stark so he shouldn't be far away."  
"What about Banner? Has he been told what's going on?"  
"Banner?"  
"Yes, Banner. Do you ever read your briefings?"  
"I think you know the answer to that, Coulson."  
"Of course not. Well, the way Foster explained it, most of what the Asgardians call magic is actually quantum mechanics and high-end physics, the stuff that's mostly still theoretical on this planet. Chances are he's done something to me on a subatomic level and this can be reversed."  
"Okay, you lost me somewhere around quantum."  
Phil just raised one eyebrow and Barton gave him a smile that was almost reminiscent of his usual cocky grin.  
"Let's just say that if Thor can't fix me then Banner and, heaven help me, Stark, might be my best chance at getting back to normal."  
"Right. Hey, do you want some clothes?"  
"Clothes would be great. Where's the things I was wearing?"  
"Uh, I don't know if they'll fit-"  
"The shirts at least should be okay, and there was a belt attached to the jeans."  
"What about your drip?"  
"What drip? I'm not in pain, call me a nurse so I can get it taken out."  
"Yes, sir!" Barton gave him a smart salute before leaving the room and Phil found himself relaxing slightly in relief at the use of the masculine honorific. Apparently, in spite of the boobs, Barton at least, still viewed him as 'sir'.


	3. I'm not wearing a skirt

Phil was very pleased to find that, apart from being a little tighter across his chest, his clothes still fit him.

Well, he'd had to ask Barton for a knife in order to punch an extra hole in his belt, and the jeans sat differently on his hips than he was used to, but it was okay. Apparently his female form was much the same size as his regular body was. The shirt-sleeves were a little long, but they folded up, and he'd been wearing an undershirt, so his new boobs were somewhat restrained beneath the dress shirt. He didn't even have long hair to deal with, which was a relief.

The nurse that Barton had corralled had been unwilling to remove the drip, until Phil had begun to pick at the tape holding it in place, at which point she had scrambled for an AMA form and demanded that he sign it before he did any damage to himself. 

Clint had somehow managed to procure the clothes that he’d been wearing upon admission and presented them to him with a flourish, dropping the pile on the bed, his shoes upside-down on the top. Phil reached for the undershirt, dropping the Chucks to the floor, and with his other hand he had started to tug the collar of his ‘gown’ down. In doing so his wrist brushed against one of his new boobs and he paused, looked over to where Barton was still standing just inside the curtain, and raised one eyebrow.

"What? I don't get to check out the new rack?"  
"No, Barton. Out."  
"Oh come on, that's just not fair!"  
"Out. Or I'll tell Natasha-"  
"Okay, okay. Keep your threats nameless and I'll make myself scarce. Jeez." Clint swished out of the space and Phil turned back to the pile of clothes - everything was intact, well, the arm of his jacket was torn for some reason, but he ignored that and, once he’d put the rest of his clothes on shrugged into it. He tried very hard not to notice how strange his cotton boxer shorts felt against the new... appliance... between his legs, in fact, he was trying to ignore many things about this body. Scrubbing a hand through his short-but-still-longer-than-he-was-used-to hair, before sitting back down on the bed and reaching for his shoes.

Okay, so this part was going to be a problem. The size eleven Converse were about a size too big for him right off the bat, even with the laces pulled tight. Dammit.

"Barton? You still there?"  
"Yes, sir. What's going on?"  
"What shoe size are you?"  
"What?"  
"Just answer the question!"  
"Uh, ten."  
"Do you have spare boots somewhere?"  
"What? Why?" Clint pulled the curtain back and found Phil sitting on the bed in the clothes he'd been wearing earlier, one shoe on and the other foot dangling down beside the bed.  
"These are too big, I might need to borrow some of your shoes."  
"Oh, okay. You'll be good in those until we get back to HQ? I've got boots that I haven't worn yet that should be okay."  
"Sounds perfect. Can we get out of here? Where's Rogers?"  
"He was just tossing Tony out a window, should be back any minute."  
"Oh, fine, whatever. Let's just get out of here. Where are my keys?"  
"Uh-"  
"No, Barton, you are not driving."  
"Oh, fine. Here." he handed the keys over, somewhat reluctantly, and Phil tugged the laces as tight as they'd go on his Chucks, dropping to his feet and stepping over to where Clint was acting almost like a facsimile of a gentleman, holding the curtain back.

Just as Phil reached him, Clint bit his lip, but not in time to stop a small laugh escaping, and Phil glared, daring him to say something. He was now, instead of being of a height with Clint, a good four inches shorter and had to tilt his chin up to look him in the eye.  
"Not a fucking word, Barton."  
"Yes, sir." But he couldn't quite wipe the smirk off his face, entirely. Somehow it was comforting, seeing the familiar cocky grin trying to break through. 

 

>>  
>>>  
>>>>  
>>>>>

Maria Hill greeted them when they got back to HQ and immediately swept Phil away from Barton and into a debriefing room, sitting him down and, uncharacteristically for her, taking the seat next to Phil instead of the one opposite him.

"Fury's orders, Phil. This is need to know, so we need to get you out of your own clothes and into something more-"  
"Do not even think about suggesting something feminine, Hill." Phil cut her off, determined not to make this... situation... any weirder than it already was. Barton ogling his chest had been one of the strangest experiences of his life and he wasn’t keen to repeat it.  
"I was going to say appropriate, Phil."  
He laughed, looking at Maria in her form-fitting suit jacket and knee-length skirt.  
"If you think I'm getting into a skirt, Maria, you've got another thing coming. And heels? Forget about it. I mean, I can walk in them if I have to, but I have no idea how you and Romanov do field work in them."  
"Actually, I was going to suggest that you go to the team downstairs and get a ladies' suit - they do come with pants, Phil. And not all women's’ shoes have heels."  
He huffed a little, but conceded the point.  
"Fine. What else? What the hell is my cover, that I've come into SHIELD at level twelve? No-one is going to accept that and I’m certainly not playing junior agent just for Fury’s amusement."  
"This is SHIELD, Phil. Think about it, who the hell would have the balls to question anything that Fury signs off on?”

Phil had to concede that point, too. Dan, he was doing a lot of giving and not getting much back, today.

“Fine. What’s my cover story?”  
“We’re still calling you Phil - you’re pretty lucky that you’ve got a relatively unisex name.”  
 “Maria-”   
“And we were going to let you select the last name you’d like to use, because if you pick it yourself you’re more likely to remember it when it’s shouted at you.”

He considered for a moment, thinking over the several aliases that he’d used in the past, and which he was most likely to actually answer to.  
  
“Carlton. It’s phonetically close and if someone in the know manages to slip up then it’ll be less noticeable.”   
“Fine. Philippa Carlton, welcome to SHIELD. If you’d like to follow me, we’ll get you outfitted in a Kevlar-lined suit and have your biometrics taken.”  
“Oh, come on. We ran my prints already, they were the same-”   
“But you’re, what, four inches shorter than you were? Fury wants a full work-up. Come on, we might as well get this over with.”  
“Fine. But no skirts.”  
“No skirts, I promise.”

>> >>> >>>> >>>>>

“What? I can’t go back to my own damn apartment?” Phil was feeling his frustrations building and the strain was starting to show, hence the cursing. Mild as the word itself was, Fury recognized just how badly this was all affecting Phil - they’d been working together for the better part of a decade.  
  
 “We can’t have your neighbors asking questions about a strange woman being sighted near your home, Phil.” Nick deliberately used his first name, showing in a small way that he empathized with his agent’s situation.  
  
 “Can’t we just say I’m my sister or something?”  
“It’s been deemed an unacceptable risk.”   
“Oh, but staying at Stark’s place _is_ acceptable?”  
“Your cover with regard to that situation is that you’re covering your own damn job - we’ve sent Philip Coulson on an away mission and his colleague Philippa Carlton is the Avengers liaison for the duration of his absence.”

Phil shifted in his seat slightly, shrugging his left shoulder and keeping his palms flat on his legs only through the sheer strength of will that he had learned in the Marines.  
  
He’d been fussed over by half a dozen women while getting outfitted, the cover they were using for Philippa’s need for an entirely new wardrobe was that her apartment had been almost completely gutted by fire, so they’d dressed him from head to toe, literally. There hadn’t been a single raised eyebrow when he’d refused high heels, but his apprehension in the lingerie department had been met with a few titters - until Natasha had pulled her usual trick of arriving with silent efficiency and taken over.

Right now, while he appreciated the fact that a bra was necessary for decency, especially in the blouse he had on, he wanted to tear the damn thing off because the wire was digging into his sternum and making it hard to breathe. 

Maybe he was wearing it wrong.

“Fine. But I want to arrange my own place as soon as I can.”  
“We’ll see what can be done. In the meantime, Agent Barton has offered to collect any essentials from your place that you might need.”  
“Barton?”  
 “He’s got a friend in the same building.”  
“Does he, now...” Phil muttered mostly to himself.   
  
Barton had never mentioned that he even knew where Phil’s apartment was, let alone that he knew someone else in the building. Then again, Barton hadn’t told anyone anything about his life before joining SHIELD, except what was a matter of public record. His entire life before his first appearance as Hawkeye was something of a mystery.

“Fine, I’ll make him a list and give him a key. What else do I have to do, today?”  
 “It’s seven PM, Carlton.” Phil almost winced at how easily Fury referred to him by the new name. “Stark’s offered to drive you to the house himself, he’ll be waiting downstairs.”   
Phil rolled his eyes but got to his feet and saluted his Director with something less than his usual enthusiasm, before grabbing the rolling suitcase he’d folded his new clothes into and leaving the room, ignoring the curious looks he was getting from the staff on the floor and walking to the elevator with his shoulders back.

 

“So it’s Philippa now, is it?”  
 “Shut up, Stark. I’ve still got that taser.”   
“Promises, promises. You know, looking like that, I might just let you tase me. I’m already drooling into the carpet.”  
Phil rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the billionaire, but it was difficult when they were in a coupe.  
“So I see that the girls downstairs got you some new threads. The suit fits you well, but you really should have gotten some heels - they make your legs look amazing.”   
“I don’t plan on being this way for long enough to learn how to walk in them, so I didn’t bother.”  
 “Oh, heels aren’t hard, you’ve just got to keep your weight evenly distributed and trust the heels to support you.”

Phil turned his head slightly and felt an eyebrow rising in silent question. When the hell had Tony Stark had occasion to learn how to walk in heels?

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know. I’m only five foot eight, Coulson. I’ve been wearing stacked heels since I was eighteen.”

Truthfully, Phil hadn’t really paid much mind to what Tony Stark wore on his feet, unless it was those ridiculous green cowboy boots, which, come to think of it, had a decent sized Cuban-style heel on them.

“Well, unlike you, Stark, I’m comfortable with how tall I am.”   
“Even four inches shorter than you were this morning? Barton mentioned that you’d shrunk. Even your feet, apparently.”   
“Barely a size smaller than they used to be.” Phil countered, but Tony just laughed.  
“Hey, I’d happily shrink another couple of inches to get a rack like that one.”  
Phil crossed his arms across his chest, defensive.  
“Will you cut that out? This is weird enough without you and Barton ogling me.”  
“I’m not ogling, I’m appreciating a finely cut shirt and an expertly fitted bra. You are wearing a bra, right?”  
 “Of course. Natasha helped with that, thank god.”

Phil immediately regretted allowing this little tidbit slip as Tony’s eyes glazed over a little and his mouth fell open, muttering something about Natasha and black lace. Damn, usually he was much more careful when talking to Stark. Then again, he’d never spent much time alone with the guy, and they’d been driving for almost half an hour. Come to think of it - Phil looked out the window.  
“Stark, where the hell are we going?”   
“Home.”  
“We just crossed 71st street! Stark House is between 63rd and 64th!”  
“I didn’t say we were going straight home, did I? It’s Friday.”  
“So?”   
“So, on Fridays the residents of Stark House go to a bar and have a few drinks together.”   
“There’s a bar in the damn mansion, Stark.” Phil ground out, wondering where the hell they could be going so far uptown.  
“Well, it was Barton’s week to pick, so he got out the big map of Manhattan, closed his eyes and threw a dart. It landed on East 78th Street, so we’re meeting at the corner of Park and 78th and seeing where the night takes us.”  
“What? Barton’s- what?”  
 “Thor picked last week and he took us to this Hoosier place in Tribeca, the week before that Natasha found a Russian place in Chinatown, of all places. Before that-”   
“Yeah, yeah, I get the idea. Why am I coming with you?”   
“Because you’re a resident, and it’s expected.”  
 “I’m in a suit.”  
“No, you’re in black pants and a green silk shirt. Take off that blazer and throw your sidearm in the glove compartment, you’ll fit right in.”

Phil tried to glare at Tony Stark, the smug, smarmy bastard who was forcing him to socialize when all Phil wanted to do was curl up and pretend that the entire day had been one big bad dream, but he couldn’t gather enough energy.

That and a cocktail sounded amazing right now - and being in a woman’s body meant that he could order a Cosmopolitan without everyone laughing at his pink drink.

Not that anyone ever did, to his face, but there were always smirks when they thought he wasn't looking.

“Fine. But you’re buying.”  
 “I’m always buying, Phil. And please, for tonight, can you call me Tony?”  
“Why don’t you wait until I’ve had at least one drink before you ask me any favours, Stark?”

  



	4. they're called hormones, Phil, and they suck

He was on his second cocktail when Phil noticed the attention he was receiving.

It didn't seem to matter that he and Natasha were the only women in a group of rowdy guys (they'd found a hole-in-the-wall bar a half a block from Park Avenue and Tony had declared it their first stop, mandating that everyone have two drinks before they could move on) including Thor and Tony Stark, there were still men in the vicinity who were checking them out.

Them.

Phil felt a blush rising as he realized a guy in his mid-thirties, dressed in a sharp suit and with a similar goatee to the one Tony wore, was smiling at him, and raised one eyebrow suggestively when Phil met his gaze with a level stare.

Then he remembered that he was female, and the blush deepened, but not because he was embarrassed, oh no. Phil was getting mad.

And apparently this body couldn't handle booze as well as his old one, because after just two Cosmo's he was feeling lightheaded, and his inhibitions were lowered.

Thankfully, he was in the company of Natasha Romanov, who was not only able to drink every one of the Avengers (except Cap and Thor) under the table and walk away without so much as a wobble, but was also hyper-aware of her surroundings at all times and seemed to have a finely-tuned shit-storm detector.

Tasha caught him by the elbow as he went to stand, and pulled him back down, planting Phil firmly between herself and Stark, catching Tony's hand and slinging his arm around Phil's shoulders in a somewhat proprietary manner. Tony didn't seem to notice, just gave Phil's shoulders a squeeze and ignored his glare.

"Romanov, that guy-"  
"Was checking you out, I know. Trust me, you want the jerk-wads to leave you alone, use Tony as a buffer. Nobody is stupid enough to compete with him."  
"What?"  
"Just, let Tony be the brick wall and I'll get you something with less kick for your third-"  
"Third? Who's up to their third?" Tony demanded, cutting off from the conversation he'd been having with Bruce and whipping around to look at Natasha and Phil, blinking twice when he realized that the girl under his arm _was_ Phil.  
"Phil just finished his second Cosmo."  
"Who else is up to their third round?" Tony asked the rest of the crew and all of them nodded, except Clint, who simply chugged the beer he'd been holding, burped and held up four fingers.  
"Alrighty then, time to move on! One drink and one only at the next destination! On your feet, team!" He stood up, taking Phil with him, and slid his arm lower so that it was around his waist rather than his shoulders, weaving them expertly through the crowded space and out into the cool Manhattan night.

The second he had space to do so, Phil extricated himself from Stark and took a few quick steps away from him, leaning heavily on a tree planted in the sidewalk and trying to get his breath back.

Yep. He was hyperventilating. Panicking about being ogled by some random guy in a suit.

Not that being checked out by a guy in a suit was an unusual experience for Phil, he lived in New York and he went out (contrary to what the Avengers thought he did have a life) to bars, he'd even been blatantly hit on by the odd gay man. It wasn't exactly his scene, but it had been flattering nonetheless.

It was more the fact that the guy hadn't even been looking him in the eye when he'd smiled, his gaze had been firmly on the neckline of Phil's blouse and it made him feel... violated... somehow.

"Phil?" There was a hand on his shoulder and Phil turned without thinking, recognizing the voice as Clint's. It wasn't until he tried to meet Clint's gaze that he realized his vision was blurry and there was a familiar prickling heat behind his eyes.

Dammit, he was crying? What the hell?

"Hey, are you okay?" Clint asked, voice low, his hand slid between Phil's shoulder blades and Phil found himself leaning into the touch, allowing Clint to hug him a little.

Damn, this body really couldn't handle much booze.

He considered the options he had available to him, but the hand on his back felt so nice, warm and solid and comforting, that he turned completely and pushed his face into Barton’s collar, shaking slightly as he began to cry.

He was never going to question a woman about why she was crying, ever again. He honestly didn’t know why his shoulders were heaving with sobs that felt as if they were being torn from the bottom of his stomach, he just knew that Clint smelled nice and the guy who had been staring at his neckline was a creeper, and that it felt good to have a strong arm wrapped around him.

Clint looked at Natasha, Steve, Tony, Bruce and Thor as they spilled onto the pavement, eyes wide and panicked over Phil’s head. He’d sort of hugged Phil to him as an automatic movement, an instinctive reaction to seeing a girl crying, but now Phil was clinging to him, both hands grasping the front of Clint’s black shirt, crying into his collarbone.

Natasha shot Clint a look that he couldn’t quite read, Tony looked uncomfortable, Steve and Bruce both turned pink, and Thor stepped forward, engulfing both Phil and Clint in a rib-crushing hug. Somewhere in the ten or so seconds that he was holding them both, Clint managed to sort of shuffle Phil around a bit and instead of clinging to him, Phil’s grip shifted to the front of Thor’s suit jacket.

The God of Thunder didn’t hesitate, Phil was in distress and that just wouldn’t do. He allowed Clint to wriggle free, before he lifted Phil up, an arm around his waist to steady him, and walked halfway up the block to a bus shelter, settling down with the SHIELD agent in his lap.

“Philip, are you well?” he asked, his voice mercifully lower than its’ usual boom.

Phil sniffed and looked up at Thor, managing a watery smile when he saw how concerned the poor guy was.

“I- I’m sorry. I just... I need to go home. I mean, I know I can’t go back to my own place, but I really don’t think I’m going to be much fun out tonight, this whole gender-reassignment thing is kind of hard to take in-” Babbling. He was babbling and he was pathetically grateful when Barton cut him off.  
“I can take you home, Phil.” Clint had walked over, leaving the others a few meters away, Natasha visibly restraining Tony with a hand on his elbow while Steve and Bruce both looked on, concerned but entirely out of their depth as to how to deal with a crying Phil.

“That would be awesome.”  
“Come on, let’s find a cab. Stark?”  
“What?”

“Cab fare. You said you were paying for the night, so you’re paying for us to get home early.”  
“Fine.” Tony grumbled, but pulled out his wallet and handed Clint a couple of bills.

Phil wiped his eyes and was very glad that he’d adamantly refused makeup, the last straw of this evening would be Tony snapping a photo of him with mascara running down his face.

Phil turned to Clint, and felt a rush of genuine affection for the smart-assed sharpshooter.

“Really? I mean, I can go back by myself-”

“Really.”

“Aw, Hawkeye, you picked the destination, you can’t bail before the second bar!” Tony objected, but Clint ignored him, holding out a hand to help Phil off of Thor’s lap.  
“Thanks, Thor.” Phil turned once he had regained his feet and held out a hand to shake Thor’s, but was drawn into another hug before he could object, and felt something press to the top of his head- a kiss?

“Keep him safe, Hawkeye.”

“Will do, buddy. C’mon, Phil.” Clint had stepped out into the street and hailed a cab that had just let out three leggy brunettes at the next bar down.

Apparently Tony had also noticed them, because he was suddenly less interested in Phil and Clint’s departure and more interested in the bar that the girls had stepped up to.

“Bye, guys. You remember which room Phil’s been assigned, Clint?” Steve asked as Tony began to walk towards the bar, Natasha following and Bruce looking torn between going with them and piling into the cab next to Hawkeye, but Thor caught him and followed Stark, dragging Bruce up the pavement at a rate of knots.

“Yes, Cap, I know which room Phil is sleeping in. I also know that his other clothes are in the Audi - don’t forget to bring it home.”

“I won’t, I took the keys off Tony before we got in the door of the first place.” Steve showed them, twirling the keyring around one finger, then his attention was diverted by Thor’s booming call of “STEVEN! THIS ALE-HOUSE SERVES BOILERMAKERS! PARTAKE OF ONE WITH ME!"

“Guess I gotta go. Bye!” Steve clapped on the top of the cab and shut the door with his other hand, leaving Clint and Phil alone in the bubble of the back-seat.

Clint leaned forward and gave the driver the address of the brownstone four houses up from Stark House, their standard drop-off point, then leaned back in his seat and sighed.

“Sorry, Barton. Didn’t mean to ruin your night.” Phil told him, feeling exceedingly stupid for having made such a big deal out of the whole situation. Hell, it wasn’t like the guy had cornered him near the bar and felt him up, he’d just stared at his boobs for a few seconds. Hell, a dozen guys had probably looked at them tonight - why was this affecting him so badly?

 

“You didn’t ruin shit, Phil. The only reason I was even out with them tonight is because Stark threatened to sabotage my next lot of incendiary arrows if I didn’t show.”

“Huh, right. He said that it was your night to choose the destination.”

“And I chose the bar at the house, where we can get messed up and not have to care about Thor accidentally destroying something, or Natasha getting murderous because someone grabbed her ass. Tony picked 78th street for some complicated mathematical reason and the rest of them are mostly humoring him.”

“Maybe we can stage a mutiny and refuse to leave the house, next Friday?”

“You’re planning on still being here next Friday?”

“Hey, I have as much faith in our science teams as the next accidentally-gender-reversed-by-magic guy in line, but they can’t work miracles. Unless we can get hold of Loki, or get a solid enough communication line open to Asgard to talk to Frigga or Odin, I’m going to be stuck like this for a while.”

Clint nodded, silent, and they passed the rest of the journey in companionable quiet.

Clint paid the driver with both the notes that Tony had handed him, and by Phil’s reckoning that was somewhere in the region of a 500% tip. Not that he cared, particularly, but it amused him to see such a misappropriation of Stark funds, however slight it was.

They walked along the dimly lit street, Clint with his hands jammed in his pockets and Phil hugging himself, he’d left his jacket in the Audi and it was starting to get cold, until they reached Stark House. Clint stepped forward and JARVIS, recently retrofitted to the security system of the mansion, greeted him.

“Good evening, Mr Barton. My sensors indicate that you have Agent Coulson with you, this evening?”

“Yes, JARVIS, thanks. Is his room ready?”

“Agent Coulson’s quarters have been prepared, as requested by yourself and Mr Stark.”

“Awesome, I know where they are.”

“Welcome to your new home, Agent Coulson.” JARVIS then opened the gate for them and Phil’s brain sort of kicked into gear, recognizing that someone, likely Tony, had informed JARVIS that his title was Agent Coulson, not Agent Carlton, and certainly not ‘Miss’ anything.

Phil was certain that his level of gratitude for this small gesture was totally out of proportion, but he still found himself smiling as he followed Clint along a short gravel path that led to the main entrance of the mansion.

It wasn’t like this was Phil’s first trip to Stark House, he’d been sent there more than twice by Fury to extricate Tony from whatever he was working on and make him attend meetings at SHIELD, but he’d never had occasion to go anywhere but the lobby and the basement workshop. Clint led him up the staircase to the left of the main doors and turned right, into the residential wing.

“Here you go, I’m pretty sure that Pepper ordered some extra clothes for you- she’s a bit of a ninja when it comes to things like that. The first night I was here all I had was SHIELD issued gear and two pairs of boxers, the next morning she’d had a whole wardrobe delivered for me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, she took my measurements from the intake form and worked some kind of fashion voodoo - she picked out these jeans.” Clint turned and lifted the tail of his shirt, showing off the form-fitting denim that stuck to him like a second skin.

“She’s got taste, I’ll give her that much.”

“And knowing how much this whole thing is likely to have freaked you out, she’s probably just put the basics in, for now. Oh, I have to show you something else, though.” Clint leaned over and opened the door of Phil’s room, allowing Phil to enter before him and take in the sparsely decorated space, dominated by a queen sized bed with a black wrought-iron headboard and a cream bedspread with matching pillows.

“This is the bathroom, and, uh, well, you kind of share it with me. So, yeah. You might want to knock before you come barging in tomorrow morning.”

“What?”

“Hey, this place was built before the war - Steve remembers Howard telling him about how his father designed it. The bathrooms got added in the seventies, and most of the rooms in this wing have two bedrooms to a bath. At least we’re not sharing with the whole floor, or there’d be a line halfway down the hall at six every morning.”

“Oh, okay. Fine, whatever. So, your room is through there?” Phil pointed through the bathroom to the other door and Clint stepped past him, opening it with a flourish.

“Welcome to my boudoir, Phil.” he swept an arm to encompass the room and Phil took it all in at a glance - there wasn’t much personalization in the space, it was spartan like his own, with a similar bed, albeit with a white coverlet and black pillows. The bed looked slept in, but had been hastily made, there was still a dent in the pillow on the side closest to the bathroom where Clint had slept the night before. His bow was hanging from a hook on the wall and his quiver was propped in the corner next to it. There was a flatscreen TV on top of the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed, something that Phil thought he would have to invest in for himself, and a single poster on the wall next to it, a somewhat tattered black-and-white from Clint’s circus days. I advertised ‘HAWKEYE - THE WORLD’S GREATEST MARKSMAN!’ with a picture of Clint below it, complete with the cowl that he had discarded since he’d joined SHIELD.

“Nice place.”

“Want a tour of the rest of the house? It is only eight o’clock.”

“That would be great, but first I want to see if Pepper did actually pull her supposedly ninja tricks and get me any more clothes - this bra is killing me.”

“Okay, meet you in the hall in five minutes, I’ll get into some sweats. And if you can’t find anything, you’re welcome to borrow some of mine. I’m sure I’ve got drawstring pants around here somewhere, and there’s a KISS t-shirt somewhere that I haven’t worn for ages because it’s too small.”

“I’ll check my room first, but thanks for the offer.” Phil retreated to his room, closing both bathroom doors behind him, and pulled open one of the drawers of the tallboy.

 

There was even a note.

 

“Hi, Phil. I know you got work clothes, but you’ll need other things. The white bras are for sparring and training, and they don’t have underwires so you might find them more comfortable than the ones Natasha got you today. There’s sweats, jeans, t-shirts and pyjamas in here. Just give me a call if anything doesn’t fit, or if you want anything else.  
\--Pepper.  
PS - I’ve put some other things you might need in the drawer of the bedside table. Talk to me or Natasha if you need any help.”

 

Phil was so grateful to discover that there were bras that didn’t have the deadly underwires in them that he ignored the last part of the note for the time being, pulling out a soft piece of material with the ADIDAS logo on one strap, then tugging the other drawers open, finding black sweatpants and a black tank top with the Dark Side of the Moon cover art across the chest.

He encountered a slight problem, however, when he tried to remove his current bra.

He’d never been particularly good at this part of courtship, from when he was a teenager making out in his parents’ basement to just a few years ago when he’d allowed himself a moment of weakness and found himself in a supply closet with another agent. Usually after a few fumbles the woman in question would take over, shoving his hand aside and performing some kind of wizardry that released the mechanism.

He was stuck, and aside from JARVIS the only other presence in the house was Clint.

Dammit.

He stripped out of his pants at least, stepping into the sweats, and dumped the suit pants and his green shirt into the laundry hamper, before going back to the bathroom, hugging the t-shirt and sports-bra to his chest, almost defensively.

He knocked on the door and Clint opened it a second later, now wearing a Rolling Stones shirt and his own black sweats, barefoot on the polished boards. His eyes widened when he saw Phil.

“I can’t get my damn bra off.”

To Clint’s credit, he didn’t laugh. Oh, his lips may have twitched a little, and he may have been forced to bite the inside of his cheek to stop a giggle from escaping, but he didn’t actually laugh, just made a twirling motion in the air with one finger and Phil obediently turned around.

He did, however, comment once Phil had his back turned.

“Nice ink, Coulson. You were a Marine?” he asked as he slid his fingers between Phil’s skin and the band of the bra, gently levering it open and letting the ends fall apart.

“Eight years.” Phil informed him, keeping his back to Clint and shrugging out of the contraption, throwing it into his own room and then pulling the white one over his head, sighing in relief once it was in place - much better. He’d have to investigate the practicality of wearing one of this design all the time. He pulled the Pink Floyd t-shirt on over the bra and turned back to face Clint.

“So, you offered me the grand tour?”

“That I did. Follow me, if you will.”


	5. if you discover that your new body can't hold its' liquor, the trick is to *stop drinking*

Phil felt his entire being relaxing as he followed Barton through the quiet hallway, back down the stairs and was taken on the 'grand tour' - which pretty much consisted of Clint pointing vaguely and giving a running commentary.

"You know where the garage and the gym are, this is the kitchen, that's the lounge and we've got a bar back here. There's a pool out the back and another bar - you know what Stark's like - and I'm having another beer. Want one?"

While Phil had been poking around, leaning sideways and trying not to overbalance with his new centre of gravity, Clint had extracted two beers from the fridge and cracked them both open, holding one out to Coulson.

"What were you planning on doing with it if I didn't want one?"  
"Pouring them both into a glass and getting you to time how long it took me to chug it."  
"Right. Hand it over."  
"Weren't you drinking pink cocktails? I'm sure there's ingredients in the bar that could make you something more girl-"  
Phil cut Clint off with a well-placed punch to his thigh, a perfect Charley-horse that would bruise beautifully, and took the proffered beer before Barton dropped it to the tiles, taking a large swig and enjoying the feeling of icy liquid all the way down his throat.  
"Don't even think about calling me girly, Barton. I could still take you down and you know it."  
"Yeah, yeah. Drink your beer, I call the remote. We're watching a movie." Barton brushed past Phil, rubbing his leg and trying not to look as if it had hurt (Phil knew it had) and stepped down into the living area, a sunken space that had obviously been added recently, it was all shiny and modern lines and there were several large sofas that looked as if they'd been repositioned several times - they were currently lining the walls and the biggest - a large black micro fibre that looked exceedingly comfortable - was directly below the kitchen.

But the room was dominated by a single pane of glass, a massive window that viewed the pool and backyard, the sofas were all angled towards it.

"We're watching a movie?"  
"Yep. JARVIS?" Clint called, vaulting over the back of the black sofa and tugging a coffee table over to within foot-rest distance.  
"Yes, Mr Barton?"  
"Movie time. Which Harry Potter was I up to?"  
"You watched _The Goblet of Fire_ last week, sir. The next movie in sequence is _Order of the Phoenix_."  
"Awesome, cue it up, I'm making popcorn."  
Clint set his beer down on the coffee table (using one of the coasters set into a groove - Natasha would kill him if he didn't) and rounded the sofa again, stepped up into the kitchen where Phil was still standing, beer in hand, and began to rummage through the cupboard.  
"Barton, how are we - oh." As Phil spoke a large blind had descended behind the window, blocking out the lights of the city visible beyond the backyard and the window itself had shifted from clear to an opaque dark grey, the Warner Brothers logo appeared in the centre of the space.  
"Pause." Barton ordered as the first few notes of Hedwig's Theme began to play, then he gave a triumphant whoop and pulled a bag of microwave popcorn out of the pantry.  
"Excellent, extra butter. You want salt?"  
"Uh, sure." Phil wasn't entirely sure what to do. Was he supposed to claim a couch of his own, or sit down on the one Clint had lined up? Eventually he decided that he was over thinking things and just planted his beer (on a coaster) next to Clint's and sat down, one leg folded under himself, leaning back into the sofa cushions and staring without seeing at the was-a-window-is-sometimes-a-screen opposite.

A few minutes later the microwave beeped and Clint returned to the couch, having poured the popcorn into an over-large bowl and apparently shaken half the kitchen's salt onto it.  
"Okay, JARVIS, let's do this. Have you seen this one?" he asked Phil, proffering the popcorn bowl, having taken a generous handful himself, and turning his attention to the screen.  
"Uh, no. I don't watch many movies."  
"JARVIS, pause." Clint shifted so that he was facing Phil directly, sitting sideways on the couch. "Have you seen _any_ of the Harry Potters?"  
"No?" Phil felt that this would somehow be viewed as a failing. He was right.  
"Have you at least read the _books?_ "  
"I've read the one with the escaped lunatic who turns out to be his godfather."  
"Seriously? How are you alive in this century and have only read _Prisoner of Azkaban_?"  
"Hey, I've got a busy job, Barton!"  
"You go on just as many long-haul flights as I do."  
"Yes, and unlike you I work on those long-haul flights."  
"That's it. JARVIS, start us with Sorcerer's Stone. Phil, you are watching the first movie tonight and the next one tomorrow, and while you live in this house you do not bring work home. You're reading Harry Potter."  
"What?"   
"Tony has banned all SHIELD paperwork from the premises, so you've got no excuse. You can borrow my copies."  
"Wait - you have all of the Harry Potter books?" Phil found this a little hard to believe. Then again, it was Barton, his continued existence was a little hard to believe, some days.  
"I've got First Editions of the last four, so treat them with respect. JARVIS, you got Sorcerer's ready to go?"  
"Certainly, sir. Whenever you're ready."  
"Alright. How's the beer situation?" Clint drained his own and clinked it against Phil's, making Phil realise that during the course of the conversation he had, indeed, emptied his beer bottle.  
"Uh, yeah. Another?"  
"Definitely. JARVIS, start the movie. Coulson, pay attention. There will be a quiz at the end."  
"Oh, yes, sir." Phil told him, injecting enough sarcasm into his tone to almost taste it. He may have even offered a limp-wristed salute.  
"Don't call me sir, Phil, I might start to like it."  
"It won't become a habit, trust me Barton." Phil picked up another handful of popcorn and picked at it, then was almost dislodged entirely from the couch as Clint returned, vaulting over the back of it and landing on the same cushion Phil had settled on, sending Phil flying sideways and his handful of popcorn was airborne.  
"BARTON!"  
"Hey, sorry! You're- you're smaller than you used to be." Clint apologised, half-heartedly, setting the beers down on their coasters and pulling Phil back onto the couch by one elbow.  
"Yeah, great weight-loss method, get your gender magically reassigned. Help me clean this up." Phil scooped a few of the pieces of popcorn away from the gap between the sofa cushions before they got lost in there and Clint leaned over him to sweep the rest onto the floor.  
"JARVIS, can you send a Roomba in here?"  
"Barton, seriously? There's a brush and shovel next to the fridge-"  
"A Roomba has been dispatched, Mr Barton."  
"And now we don't have to get off the couch until we need another beer. Thanks, JARVIS, you can play the movie, now."  
"What am I supposed to do with this?" Phil held up his handful of somewhat-fuzzy popcorn and Clint grasped his wrist, pulled it out so that his hand was above the pile of spilled popcorn on the floor and tipped it over.  
"Great."  
"Hey, JARVIS runs the house, Tony programmed him to keep the place clean. Drink your beer and experience a cultural phenomenon."  
"Fine."  
"And no talking. If you've got questions just wait it out and ask when the credits are rolling."

Phil didn't even dignify that with an answer, just picked his beer up and took a swig, turning his attention to the movie now playing on the window/screen/thing.

Twenty minutes later, against his will, better judgement and possibly the laws of nature, Phil was engrossed in the movie. There had been a flying motorbike in the first five minutes, and he was only human. 

Clint was half watching the movie, but part of him was watching Phil, sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed, the popcorn bowl firmly wedged in his lap, picking up single pieces every thirty seconds or so and chewing on them absently. He'd take the odd mouthful from his beer, too, and didn't even seem to notice when Clint replaced it after he'd drained the dregs. 

It was around the 'TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!' moment that Phil shifted and uncrossed his legs, holding the beer and popcorn out to Clint, who took them and put both on the coffee table. Phil stretched, then leaned back on the sofa, shifting sideways a little but not taking his eyes off the screen as Hermione looked up from wiping her eyes at the sink and discovered a nine-foot troll standing behind her.

Either he didn't notice, or pretended not to notice, Clint's arm stretched out along the back of the couch as he leaned back, his shoulder touching Clint's thumb as he settled back on the sofa and held out a hand for his beer to be returned.

Clint obeyed the unspoken request, but planted the popcorn in his own lap, determined to at least eat _some_ of the snack he had prepared for himself, and turned his own gaze back to the movie.

 

>>  
>>>  
>>>>  
>>>>>

"JARVIS! TUNES!" Tony demanded as he was dragged up the stairs, supported on either side by Steve and Thor, Natasha and Bruce trailing behind.  
"Sir, Mr Barton and Agent Coulson are asleep in the lounge, music would-"  
"WHAT? I GOTTA SEE THIS!" Tony broke away from his large, blonde crutches and attempted to scale the stairs at speed, but Natasha was already ahead of him, skipping up the stairs two at a time and was through the door before Tony noticed that he'd fallen face-down on the stairs the minute he'd let go of Steve's neck.

Thor bent down and scooped Tony up, hoisting him into a fireman's lift and Tony began to giggle, his sunglasses (which he was still wearing, for some reason) slipping down his nose as he dangled over Thor's shoulder.  
"You have a great ass, Thor."  
"You have complimented my appearance many times this evening, Stark. You are very affectionate when you drink." Thor laughed along with him, and Tony nodded, though nobody but Bruce could see that at the moment.  
"That I am." Tony said, to Thor's butt, as they finally finished climbing the stairs and emerged just outside the kitchen, to find Natasha standing in the doorway, blocking their view of what she was apparently staring at.

"No, you don't need to go into the kitchen, take him upstairs, Thor." Natasha informed them all, and Steve turned immediately, heading up the stairs, followed swiftly by Bruce.  
Thor inclined his head and went to turn around, but a drunk Tony is a determined Tony, and he grabbed onto the doorjamb, holding on for dear life.  
"Tasha! I need another beer! Let me in the kitchen!"  
"No, Tony. You need to go to bed."  
"Come on Tasha..." Tony was wheedling, and still refusing to let go of the doorjamb. Thor was still holding onto him, but was uncertain of how much he could pull on Tony while he was gripping the wall, afraid of hurting him.  
"Stark, you need to release the doorway."  
"No, I wanna see what Tasha is hiding!"

A drunk Tony is also a slippery Tony. The second Thor released him in order to change his grip, Tony was on the floor and moving, apparently even Natasha was no match for a mostly-hammered Tony Stark in his home environment, because he got the drop on her by feinting left and then stepping right and got through the door and into the kitchen before she could grab him.

"Holy fuck."

He stopped, dead, on the top step into the lounge and Natasha collided heavily with him, followed by Thor, at which point they fell like a badly-rehearsed comedy routine, down the two steps and wound up sprawled in a pile next to the end of the couch.

>>>

Clint's eyes had snapped open the second Natasha had come across the threshold, but he'd frozen in place when he felt the weight settled on his chest, and had slowly looked down as he'd heard Tony and Thor's voices echoing up the stairwell.

Dark hair. Short, dark hair and a hand on his neck, a soft, warm body breathing steadily, the woman's ear pressed to his sternum. It took Clint almost two whole seconds to remember that this woman wasn't just anyone, it was _Coulson_ , sleeping on his chest.

He lifted his gaze, feeling mild panic set in, and his eyes found Natasha, one eyebrow raised, completely nonplussed. 

Clint's mind was reeling - how had this happened? They'd settled in to watch Harry Potter and the Sorcerers' Stone, he'd been up and down every ten minutes or so to get them fresh beers, they'd run out of popcorn at around the same time Harry unwrapped his Invisibility Cloak, and then, when the first movie had ended and Clint had asked JARVIS to start Chamber of Secrets, well...

Then Phil had started leaning into him, eyes heavy, and Clint had rearranged himself without thinking about what he was doing, shifting sideways and letting Phil settle with his head resting on Clint's collarbone. 

Apparently they'd both fallen asleep at some point, and now the others were home. Clint felt Phil beginning to stir, when Tony appeared, sidestepping Tasha, who had turned to tell the others to go straight upstairs, and stopped at the top of the stairs.

"Holy fuck."

Then Natasha grabbed him, her hand over his mouth, and Thor collided heavily with them both, sending all three to the floor in a pile. It would have been funny, except Clint's brain was kind of stuck on 'Phil Coulson is asleep on my chest and it feels nice what the hell?'

Phil twisted his head and muttered something, but didn't actually wake up properly, just pressed his thumb into the base of Clint's neck and yawned, then settled once more, sort of nuzzling into Clint's chest. 

Before Clint had time to react to any of this, which is saying something because Clint's reaction times are fairly impressive, Thor had regained his feet and Natasha had started to drag Tony, talking behind her hand and apparently determined to get his message across, but she ignored him and kept walking, even when Tony went limp in an attempt to get her to stop. 

"Thor, little help?" she asked, when Tony managed to hook an ankle around one of the stools standing at the breakfast bar, and Thor returned, grasped Tony by both ankles, and helped Natasha carry him through the door and up the stairs.

Clint looked back down at the sleeping form sprawled on his chest and the panic began to rise again. How the hell did he handle this? Surely, surely there was some kind of protocol for when your gender-reassigned-handler got drunk and fell asleep on you while watching kids' movies?

Okay, so, that was wishful thinking. Not even SHIELD was that specific.

But Clint still had no idea what to do. He couldn't just leave Phil there, could he? And there was no way he could move too much, no matter how drunk Phil had gotten, if Clint tired to slide out from beneath him then his soldiers' instincts would kick in and Clint was fairly certain that at least one of them would end up injured. Considering how off-kilter Clint felt (he'd matched Phil beer-for-beer, for those keeping track, there were sixteen empties in the recycling bin and they'd been drinking for about three and a half hours before Phil had started to get sleepy) there was a more than fair chance that both of them would get hurt, actually. 

In the end, it was Steve who came to the rescue, apparently sent by Natasha.

"Clint? Phil's room is next to yours, right?"  
"Uh, yeah."  
"How much has he had to drink?"  
"About eight beers."  
"What, since you guys got home? The only reason Tony's so drunk is because he slapped down his credit card and did body shots with a bunch of models."  
"Apparently he's a lightweight when he's a girl."  
"Tell you what, I'll take him up to his room."  
"You sure?"  
"Hey, he'll do less damage to me than you if he wakes up scared."

Steve was right, as usual, so Clint leaned back and allowed Steve to sort of roll Phil over and lift him up, one arm around his shoulders, the other under his knees, and Phil just snuffled a little and pressed his face into Steve's shoulder.

"Holy buckets, he's really out of it." Steve commented as Phil dropped back deeper into sleep, going limp in Steve's hands.  
"It's been a big kind of day, Steve."  
"Yeah, but still."  
"Look, if I leave the doors of our bathroom open, keep an eye on him, will that stop you worrying?"

Steve nodded, and Clint sat up, slowly, feeling the head-rushy-buzz of eight beers hit him as he got to his feet.  
"How many beers have you had?"  
"Same. I kept pace with him while we watched Harry Potter."  
"You watched _Harry Potter_?"  
"Yes, the first two, don't worry, I didn't start the fifth one without you, Cap. C'mon, let's just get upstairs, I need about a gallon of water and sleep or I'm going to be hungover as all hell."

Steve laughed a little at that, a low rumble in his chest, and Phil stirred again, but when Steve looked down, alarmed, he just sighed and settled again, grasping the front of Steve's shirt with one hand.

"Upstairs it is, lead the way, Hawkeye."


	6. fracking hormones

Sunlight is always its’ most obnoxious when you wake up feeling hung-over.

Phil sat up, disoriented, and clutched at his head, half-remembered nightmares still bouncing around in his brain and not helped by the stabbing pain behind his eyes, or the vague feeling of nausea rolling around in his stomach.

In the dream… the nightmare, really… he’d been turned into a woman, somewhere in Central Park, then he’d been taken to a bar by Tony Stark, cried on Thor’s shirt and fallen asleep on Clint Barton while watching a movie.

He was glad to be awake, out of the land of terrifying dreams, but didn’t remember his own bedroom being quite so bright in the morning, he was in a room oriented directly east, but his bedroom window faced north.

Realisation dawned as he recognised the room he was in – not his own bedroom but a space that resembled a high-end hotel – and groaned.

So much for ‘it was all a dream’, he looked down and, yep. The breasts were still in place, under the Pink Floyd t-shirt he’d pulled on the night before. His headache seemed to double in intensity and the vague nausea was suddenly a full-on urge to vomit.

He scrambled out of the bed and almost overbalanced – the newly relocated centre of gravity was certainly going to take some getting used to – and slammed into the bathroom without thinking.

It wasn’t until he was done vomiting that he realised he wasn’t alone in there, because the shower was running and Barton was talking to him over the rushing of the water.

“Oh, Phil, seriously, if you wanted to see me naked you could have just asked-”

“Shut up, Barton, or I’ll puke on your feet.” He groaned, and punctuated the sentence with another heave, emptying the entire contents of his stomach (mostly popcorn and beer) before leaning back against the counter and trying to get his breath back.

“New body can’t handle booze, hey?”  
“Not like the old one could. Is there a spare toothbrush here for me or what?”

Phil dropped the lid of the toilet and flushed it, pulling himself up until he was sitting on it and pressed his forehead to the cool tile of the vanity unit, not even game to look at his reflection, yet.

“Yeah, mine’s the green one, yours is orange. There’s a box of stuff under the sink that wasn’t there yesterday, I think it’s mostly the girly stuff-”  
“Clint, what the hell did I say about that word?”  
“I mean like makeup remover wipes and female deodorant. And it is girly – half of it’s pink!”  
“Says the man whose wardrobe is predominantly purple.”   
“Purple is sexy. Hand me a towel?” Clint asked as he shut the shower off.  
“Sure, sure.” Phil opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out one of the dark grey bath sheets, gripped the edge of the sink for leverage and got to his feet, hooking the towel around the side of the semitransparent shower curtain and averting his eyes from the fuzzy form of a naked Clint on the other side of it.

He resumed his seat on the closed toilet, leaning his head on the sink, unwilling to move too far just yet, his stomach still roiling.

Clint stepped out of the shower, the towel slung around his hips, hair sticking up in all directions where he’d scrubbed at it, but beads of water still running down his torso.

“Are you sure you’re just hungover? I mean, this isn’t something to do with the magic?”  
“Yeah, there’s nothing sinister about this – I remember having mornings like this in college – though that was usually as a result of a bottle and a half of cheap whiskey, not half a dozen beers and Harry Potter.”  
“Uh, well… you had about eight beers, actually…”  
“Oh, dear god. Did I try and keep pace with you?” Phil groaned, not really wanting to know the answer.  
“More I tried to keep pace with you. Look, take a shower, drink some water and I’ll get you some painkillers. If you’re feeling more human after that then we can consider the options for breakfast, okay?”  
“That sounds like the best idea you’ve had all day, Clint.”   
“Hey, and it’s not even eight AM! Maybe I’ll have another one before lunch!”  
“With your track record? Yeah, not likely.” Phil closed his eyes for a few seconds before getting to his feet. The vomiting had helped – it always did – and he felt a bit better. A lot better, actually.

It took him a few seconds, but eventually he realised that Clint was staring at him, sort of expectantly.

“Yes, Barton?”  
Clint sort of shook himself, blinked a few times and caught the edge of the towel as it threatened to dislodge itself.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just – it’s going to take a bit of getting used to, you being a woman and all.”  
“Get out and let me shower. You can come back in when you’ve got painkillers.” Phil grabbed him by one elbow and shoved him back into his own room, ignoring the grin Clint shot at him in favour of slamming the door in his face.

Phil had barely been in the shower two minutes when the door of the bathroom, on Clint’s side, creaked slightly as it opened.

“Eyes shut, Barton.”  
“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm was so thick that Phil was surprised Barton didn’t choke on it.  
“I’m serious – even if I didn’t have breasts I don’t think I’d appreciate you walking in on me in the shower. You got painkillers?”  
“Paracetamol, three of, and a glass of apple juice. It’s next to the sink, and apparently Steve is making everyone breakfast.”  
“Awesome. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”  
“You sure you’ll be okay? I mean, you needed help with your bra yesterday…”

Damn. Phil looked down at himself and sighed. He knew that some women got away without wearing bras, but unfortunately he didn’t think he could manage – damn it.

“Fine, whatever. Just… take the pills and the juice into my room and I’ll be out in a minute.”  
“Yes, sir.”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Phil was extremely grateful to Clint for still calling him ‘sir’, in spite of the curves and the bra. It was helping him keep a vague sense of himself intact, and it was good to have a constant to latch onto in a place where his entire brain seemed to be slowly turning itself inside out.

The fact that the constant thing he was clinging to was Clint Barton did not warrant further examination – if he thought too hard about Barton being his anchor, well. He didn’t know what it meant and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

A few minutes later, wrapped in one of the towels and extremely glad that Stark never did things by halves – the towels were huge and easily covered him from his armpits and almost to his knees – he was back in his own bedroom and had opened the top drawer of the tallboy.

The shriek he let out certainly would not have been possible if he were still male – and he slammed the drawer shut with enough force that the vase balanced on top of the cabinet wobbled alarmingly before toppling over entirely.

Clint, alarmed by the noise that Phil had made, had leapt off the bed and grabbed Phil, dragging him away from the chest of drawers just as the vase rolled off and onto the hardwood floor, shattering.

“What the hell?” he demanded, his arms still wrapped around Phil’s waist, the pair of them had come to a halt when Clint’s knees had hit the bed and he’d sat down, finding himself with a lapful of Phil in nothing but a towel, hair dripping on Clint’s shoulders.

“Nothing- nothing, never mind… just-”

Clint looked at Phil’s face, eyes narrowing, and took advantage of the fact that he was bigger, stronger and already holding onto him to turn Phil slightly so that their eyes met.

“Phil, I’ve seen you stare down men holding AK-47’s to your head and according to Sitwell you barely blinked an eye when that Destroyer thing appeared out of nowhere in New Mexico. What the hell is in that drawer that’s so damn scary?”

Phil’s mind was racing, and his heart was hammering so hard he was amazed that Clint couldn’t feel it from where his hand was resting between Phil’s shoulder blades. He felt himself turning red, embarrassed, and tried to twist out of Clint’s grip, but the archer refused, holding him in place and ducking his head to maintain eye contact.

“Phil, what is it?”

Phil took a deep breath and clenched his teeth – this was something that he really did not want to talk about with Clint Barton… but Barton was the only one here, and so far he was the only one who was treating him normally since this whole thing had started.

“It’s – Pepper, or Natasha, someone… someone has put that girly stuff in there… the, um-”  
“What? Tampons?”

Phil felt his cheeks start to burn as Clint used that word, so nonchalant and uncaring that he suddenly felt like a complete idiot for reacting so strongly to the box with ‘Tampax’ printed on the side.

“Phil, come on. You had to have thought of that possibility, surely? I mean, you said so yourself, you might have a lot of faith in the science teams but even they can’t work miracles.”  
“I’m sorry, shit, Clint, I really am sorry, but it’s more that it’s there for me that is the scary part. I mean, I’ve bought those… things… before, for girlfriends or whatever, but, I mean, they’re for _me_. It’s just a bit too fucked up for me to deal with right now…” Oh god, he could feel a lump in his throat and hell, was he going to cry _again_?

Apparently, he was. Before he could stop himself there was a choking sob coming out of his mouth and suddenly Clint was hugging him tight, both arms around Phil’s shoulders, one hand on the back of his head, pressing Phil’s face into his shoulder. 

Where he’d panicked the night before when Phil had started crying on his shoulder, at least this time he knew exactly what to do – or he hoped he did. The night before Phil had only been crying for a few minutes, and had seemed to calm down when Thor had held him, so Clint did that now, hugging Phil tight and trying to make reassuring noises without actually saying anything.

The towel was twisted, and Clint’s shirt was wet where Phil’s face and hair pressed into him, but he didn’t care. He’d never been good at dealing with anyone when they were crying, but somehow it seemed like he was doing something right, right now, because Phil’s sobs were slowing, and his grip on Clint’s neck was loosening, slightly.

After a full five minutes, Phil had stopped shaking but he still had his face buried in Clint’s shoulder, his arms around the archers’ neck, and Clint was still holding him in place, one arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist.

“I’m sorry.” Phil muttered, twisting his face slightly so that he was speaking to Clint’s neck. “I’ve got no fucking idea why this keeps happening.”

“What? The crying or the hugging me?” Clint asked him, leaning back slightly and sliding his hands up to Phil’s shoulders.

“Either and or both?” Phil told him, sniffling a little and lifting one corner of the towel to wipe his eyes.

“Look, you know that a lot of this is probably just the woman-hormones, right?” Clint asked, and Phil gave him a watery smile.

“I know, I know. Look, can you just help me with the bra so that we can get some breakfast?”

“Sure thing. Go and pick one out, and ignore that other… stuff… I can help you get it done up and you can try on some of those jeans that Pepper picked out for you.”

“Thanks.” Phil shuffled slightly and Clint let him go, leaning back slightly on the bed and absently sort of brushing at his t-shirt where it was still quite wet.

Phil was back a few seconds later with a plain black cotton bra and he held it out to Clint with a look of vague confusion and mild distaste.

“How the hell do these things work, anyway?”  
“Just think of it like a holster, Phil. Same basic principle. Turn around.”

Phil turned in place and let the towel drop to his hips, and Clint reached around him, holding the contraption by the shoulder straps and letting Phil thread his arms through them before snapping it together in between his shoulder blades.

“How’s that, do you need the straps adjusted?” Clint asked, as Phil adjusted himself, tugging on the straps and rearranging his front half before turning to face Clint.

“Is that how they’re supposed to look?” He was staring at his own chest, and not only was the vantage point unfamiliar, but somehow the bra had managed to make the breasts double in size, and he was sure that they were higher up than they had been a few seconds ago.

“They look… they look awesome.” Clint told him, unabashed in his appreciation of the rather fine rack right in front of him.

“Barton…”  
“Hey, I’m just telling you the truth. Did Pepper pick out that bra? Because it’s amazing, I mean-”  
“Clint. Shut up.”  
“Sorry.”  
“They are pretty neat, though.” Phil pulled his shoulders back and bounced on the balls of his feet, making his boobs jiggle. “How do chicks get through the day with these things right there… it’s hypnotic…”  
“Yeah…” Clint’s expression had kind of gone blank, his mouth was open and after a few seconds he licked his lips.

Phil looked up just as Barton bit his lower lip, still staring at Phil’s boobs, and both of his hands were clutching at the bedspread.

“Barton? Clint? Clint!”  
“What?” Clint blinked and looked up to find Phil smirking at him, one eyebrow raised.  
“Man, I might have to put these things to use – I’ve never seen you concentrate so hard on something you weren’t about to put an arrow through.” He grabbed his boobs and pushed them up and together then let them fall back into place.

“Stop it.” Clint protested, raising his forearm to his face, shielding his eyes from the power of The Boobs, as he was now thinking of them.

“Fine, fine. Get back in your own room and I’ll be through in a minute then you can take me down to breakfast.”  
  



	7. ...that's the SHIELD version of flirting, right there.

They had the kitchen to themselves, and when Clint asked, JARVIS informed them that everyone else was still in their rooms, except Steve, who was out for his morning jog.

“Awesome, well, that means pancakes for two, unless you’d prefer something else?” Clint asked, even as he left Phil on one side of the breakfast bar and began pulling canisters of flour and sugar out of the pantry.

“Uh,  no objections, but-”

"But what?” Clint asked, setting the flour down and turning to the fridge.

“You can cook?”

Clint paused, turned, and pressed his free hand to his heart, scandalized.

“Why, Phil, your lack of faith in my is just saddening… and a little insulting.”

“Hey, I’ve never seen you show any interest in food aside from hot-dogs and takeout. Ever.”

“I’ll have you know that I am an excellent cook, Philip.”

Phil raised an eyebrow at that.

“Oh, really, Clinton? Well, I’ll believe that when I get some proof.”

“Pancakes won’t be enough?”

“Hell no – but they’ll be a good start.”

Clint paused as he pulled the eggs and milk out of the fridge. “…is this some kind of sneaky Phil ninja thing to get me to cook for you?”

“No, it’s mostly because I don’t trust Stark to cook anything, ever, and Banner's curries are insanely hot. Not to mention, Natasha's only skills in the kitchen involve the knives and a lot of blood.”

“Well, I’m never one to back down from a challenge. Before the day is out, I shall prove myself!” Clint declared, flourishing a wooden spoon.

“Great. Can you start by getting me a refill for my juice?”

 

Twenty minutes later, Phil was enjoying a stack of rather delicious blueberry pancakes and very much looking forward to lunch if this was any indication of just how good a cook Barton actually was.

Clint had just flipped the last pancake onto his own stack when Steve came into the kitchen, grinning.

“Oh, Clint! You made pancakes, again? Awesome!”

Clint froze, glanced down at the now-empty batter jug and then at the plate of pancakes intended for himself, then sighed.

“Uh, well-”

Steve then seemed to notice that the frying pan was no longer on the heat, and that the jug was empty. He began to back-pedal, fast.

“Oh, no, Clint! If it’s just for you two I can have a few bagels, it’s fine!”

“Steve, no, I can make more-” but there was really no arguing with a determined Cap. Steve simply smiled, stepped past him and began pulling bagels from the bread bin, making for the toaster.

So Clint gave up, pulled himself up onto the stool next to Phil and dug into his own stack of pancakes.

Phil was just about to slice his last pancake in half when JARVIS spoke.

“Agent Coulson, there is a phone call for Miss Carlton – where would you like it directed?”

Phil closed his eyes for a second, wondering who the hell wanted ‘Miss Carlton’ before 10AM on a Saturday, before glancing at the handset on the wall next to him. He plucked it from the cradle and pressed the green button. 

“Here is fine, JARVIS.”

Clint was looking at him a little strangely, and Phil remembered that he hadn’t mentioned the whole ‘Philippa Carlton’ thing to him, or any of the Avengers, actually.  Making a mental note to fill them in ASAP, he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Philippa Carlton.”

“Agent Carlton, I'm Agent Sitwell.”

Phil almost dropped his glass of juice. Holy hell. If Sitwell didn’t know about the situation, then this whole gender-swap thing really was being kept top-tier classified.

“I understand that you’re the Avengers liaison while Agent Coulson is on assignment?

“Yes, Agent Sitwell, I am. Can I help you with anything?”

“Actually, I just wanted to touch base, see if Phil had left anything out of his briefing.”

“Uh, no, not that I’ve come across. Agent Coulson was very thorough, Agent Sitwell.”

“Please, call me Jasper.”

“Okay, Jasper.”

“May I call you Philippa?”

“I prefer Phil.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing that you and Coulson aren’t working together.”

Phil grit his teeth and found himself very glad that this wasn’t a video call – he was certain that he was grimacing.

“I suppose so. Did you need anything else?”

“Uh, no, not just now. But feel free to call me if you come across anything that Coulson may have overlooked.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great, well, I look forward to meeting you in person on Monday.”

“Me, too.”

Phil had spun himself so that his back was to the kitchen for the duration of the call, but when he hung the handset up he couldn’t avoid the scrutiny any longer.

“Jasper?” Clint asked, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Oh, don’t even start, Barton.”

“I didn’t know his first name was Jasper.” Steve muttered, cracking a couple of eggs into a pan.

“What, he wants you to call him Jasper, it’s cute, he’s flirting with you.”

“What?”

“I wonder who showed him your personnel file? I mean, obviously he thinks you’re hot, to be calling and flirting with you at this hour.” Clint mused, spearing the last piece of pancake from Phil’s plate.

“Flirting? What are you-”

“Yeah, flirting.”

“Jaspe- Sitwell was not flirting with me!”

“Of course he was! Everyone knows that Phil Coulson never leaves a single thing out of any of his reports. You’re legendarily thorough. Sitwell’s establishing  himself as Agent Cartlon’s go-to-guy – for a SHIELD agent, that’s flirting.”

“I think I’d know if Sitwell had been flirting with me.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How would you know? Have you ever been on the receiving end of it?”

That… that was a very good point and Phil hated to admit that Clint was right.

“No.”

“Then you have to trust me – I’m something of an expert on the subject of flirting.”

That earned Clint a glare from Phil and a laugh from Steve.

“Hey – you can’t talk, Captain!”

“I’m not pretending I’m any good at flirting, myself, I’m just amused that you’re passing yourself off as an expert.”

Clint huffed a little but conceded.

“Oh, fine, but I’m right. You watch – _Jasper_ will be falling over himself to show you around the office on Monday. How is all of this being explained, anyway? I mean, what’s the cover?”

 “I’m a transfer from Stark Industries at Tony’s request, while Agent Coulson is on assignment.”

Phil smiled a little at that, taking a moment to enjoy Clint’s complete confusion.

“A – what?  Transfer from Stark? To… to a level 7 SHIELD agent and the new Avengers liaison? Some chick that nobody has ever heard of is suddenly – who the hell is going to buy that?”

“I think the better question would be who, other than you, would dare question both Stark and Fury in the same breath? From the sound of it, even Sitwell has accepted the new information without so much as a raised eyebrow.”

“That is just… sneaky.”

“Hello, Barton. Covert government agency, kind of in the description.”

“Point taken.”

 


	8. back in the thick of it (flats were a good choice)

The rest of the weekend passed in relative normalcy - well, what passed for normalcy in the Tower. Phil had no less than four sparring sessions with Natasha in an attempt to get to know his new body - Tony ogled him shamelessly until Phil took him down with a move that worked just as well with wider hips and boobs in the way and Thor laughed uproariously.

Clint took it upon himself to make sure that Phil's aim and gun-handling abilities were not impeded by the inversion, which they weren't, of course. 

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Phil almost felt normal, until Steve arrived to collect him to take him into SHIELD and he realised that he had to pick an outfit to wear to the office that didn't involve a tie... he'd been in jeans and sweats all weekend and this was his first foray into business wear.

Steve knocked on the door and stepped into his room, stopped short with a squeak and backed up in a hurry, hands over his eyes, apologising profusely. Phil was confused for a moment until he looked down at himself and realised that he was standing in the doorway of his closet wearing nothing but stars-and-stripes panties and a bright blue bra.

That would explain the furious blush rising up Steve's neck and the choked sounds coming from just outside his door.

Clint, in the bathroom, heard the commotion and poked his own head around the door, a black towel wrapped around his hips, hair still wet and sticking up in all directions.

"What the hell - oh. Cap, seriously, you've seen him in the showers, what' the big deal?"  
"He - I mean, it's not appropriate-"  
Phil was doing his best, really, not to laugh, but he was in all honesty likely just as mortified as the good Captain - and then Barton realised that Phil was blushing, too.  
"Oh - you've got to be kidding me. Did you let Darcy take you to Macy's yesterday? Are those really..." he hitched his towel up and stepped over to Phil in order to get a closer look at the bra and panties set, not that he needed to, it just amused him to see the blush deepen on Phil's neck and cheeks. "Is that a Captain America bra, Phil?"  
"Shut up, Barton."  
"It is! it's got silver stars on the straps! Cap, have you seen these?"   
"Clint, please, just let Phil get dressed so that I can take him to the office?" Steve asked, still shielding his eyes with one foot in the bedroom and one foot out the door.  
"Sure, sure. Why are you still in your underwear?" Clint asked, turning to face Phil again.  
"Because I have no idea what to wear. Usually on Monday's it's the grey Versace with a blue shirt-"  
"And that green tie, I know. Haven't you got those new Kevlar-lined suits that you were fitted for last week?"  
"Yes - but what the hell else do I wear with them? I can't wear a shirt and tie - I mean, none of the other women do-"  
Clint raised one eyebrow and tucked his towel in, stepping around Phil and into the closet, plucking a pale grey suit from the rack and running a hand along the rest of the hangers until he found a dark purple long-sleeved button down shirt. He handed them both to Phil with a pointed nod, and so Phil slipped the shirt on, stepped into the pants and then fastened the suit jacket in place.  
"This still doesn't feel right..." He muttered, then he noticed that Clint was holding his holster and sidearm out.  
"Might want to put this under the jacket, sir."

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil noticed that Steve flinched a little and raised one eyebrow before questioning it.  
"Captain? Is there a problem?"  
"Oh, it's just - Clint, you won't be able to call Phil 'sir' at the office - you're going to have to break that habit."  
"That? Right. Well, I'll let you finish getting dressed and I might as well join the carpool. Give me five minutes, Steve?"  
"Are you planning on shaving today, Clint?" Steve asked, stepping into the bedroom proper as Phil shrugged out of his jacket and adjusted the holster under his arms.  
"Why would I do that? I never do any other Monday."  
"Fine, just hurry up, Natasha's already waiting."  
"On my way!" Clint flicked a quick salute Steve's way before skipping back through the bathroom and into his own room.  
"Uh, Captain? Can you help me with this?" Phil asked, unable to reach the strap between his shoulder blades that would keep the holster from slipping.  
"Sure." Steve stepped over and re-buckled the leather so that it sat flush against the purple shirt and Phil rolled his shoulders to make sure it was secure.   
"That ought to do it. Thanks."  
"Alright, here." Steve picked up the suit jacket and held it out for Phil to slide his arms into, smoothing it down and then noticing something else.  
"Uh, Agent Coulson - sorry, Carlton? Is it Carlton?"  
"Carlton at the office, Phil at home, Steve."  
"Phil. Uh, don't women usually carry purses?"  
"Ugh, don't remind me. No, I got a flat wallet that fits in my inside pocket and my cell phone is never going anywhere but my pants pocket, no matter what I'm wearing." True to his word, Phil slid the sleek black wallet into the interior pocket opposite his sidearm and his StarkPhone into the hip pocket of his pants where it promptly slid to the front of his thigh and settled just a couple of inches to the side of his zipper.  
"At least it's a slim-line phone." He commented, and Steve's blush started to rise again.  
"Come on, puck some shoes and we need to make a move - Natasha will leave us behind if we're not in the car in the next couple of minutes."

>>  
>>>  
>>>>

Clint had, somehow, beaten them downstairs in his boots, black cargo pants and SHIELD issue combat jacket. Technically on the days he was in the office he was supposed to wear a shirt and tie, but the occasions that had happened were so rare that there were betting pools among the junior agents as to when it might happen again.

Natasha was driving and somehow Steve got the front seat, so Phil found himself in the back and was just about to buckle his seatbelt when his door opened and he found himself unceremoniously shoved across the leather seat and practically into Barton's lap by an apparently under-caffienated Tony Stark.  
"Tony, what are you doing here?" Natasha asked, glaring at him in the rear-view mirror.  
"Happy's in Malibu and Pepper's taken the jet to DC."  
"And that explains why you are in my car, how?"  
"Because Fury wants me at SHIELD and Bruce is taking his motorbike. I'd fly there myself but last time I did that a bunch of goons tried to steal my helmet for the R&D department and I got shouted at when I blasted them."  
"What about Thor?"  
"He's with Banner. He wanted to experience Manhattan from the bitch-seat so I'm letting him. Can we stop for coffee on the way?"  
"There's a Starbucks right next door to the front entrance, Tony."  
"Yeah, but we never use that entrance."  
"Today we might have to - we have a new agent with us, remember?" Natasha nodded pointedly at Phil, who had managed to right himself by now but was still squashed up against Clint in an effort to get away from Stark.  
"Oh, right. That. Uh, sure. That makes sense, I guess."  
"You guess?"  
"I mean, I may have upgraded Phil Carlton's security access over the weekend so she could just walk in through any door without being questioned-"  
"You did what?" Phil demanded, and Tony winced.  
"Hey! Not so loud, I've only had half a cup of coffee."  
"What did you do to my clearance?"  
"Put it up to level 7, like you're supposed to have. You shouldn't have to go through the indignity of being treated like a junior agent just because you got boobs. C'mon, Natasha, can we go to that little place on 49th? You know the one, with the cute baristas... they have your favourite blend!"  
"Are you buying?" Natasha asked, and Phil almost groaned. Natasha had few weaknesses but a good espresso was one of them.  
"When am I not buying? I own the building that the place is in and I've reduced their rent twice just because they make such a good brew."  
"Right. What time is it?"  
"Seven forty eight." Steve told her, consulting his watch and frowning sightly.  
"What time is your first meeting, Tony?"  
"Hell if I know."  
Natasha sighed and flicked her gaze to Phil, still looking at them through the rear-view mirror.  
"Phil, when do you have to be at the office?"  
"I'm usually already there by now, on Mondays."  
"Well today you're going to arrive at half past eight. Buckle up, people, we have a coffee run to do before we hit the financial district." 

>>  
>>>  
>>>>

Phil hated it when Clint Barton was right. 

It was even worse when Clint knew he was right and was rubbing his face in it.

He'd been in his office (his new office, two doors away from Phil Coulson's office) for barely ten minutes and had only managed to drink half of his hazelnut mocha before Jasper Sitwell appeared in his doorway, holding a stack of files and giving him a smile that Phil had never seen before.

He looked up from his computer as Sitwell knocked on the doorjamb and got to his feet after a few seconds, remembering that this was Philippa Carlton's first meeting with the man.  
"Good morning, how can I help you?"  
"Philippa Carlton?"  
"That's me."  
"I'm Jasper Sitwell, we spoke on Saturday?"  
"Oh, yes, Agent Sitwell. Nice to meet you." He extended a hand and Jasper shifted the stack of papers to under one arm so that he could take it.   
"Uh, just thought I'd swing by and see if there was anything you needed, being new to New York and all."  
"No, I don't think so. Mr Stark helped with the IT systems and Director Fury briefed me on my responsibilities this morning. I've also been given an information packet from Agent Coulson - I was just about to take another look at it before my meeting with Agent Barton."  
It was all Phil could do not to glare at a particular section of ceiling tiles when he heard the slightest scrape from above him - Sitwell on the other hand didn't even seem to notice the noise. And he wondered why he was stuck at level five.  
"Oh, alright then. Well, let me know if you need any help, I'm right around the corner."  
"I'll keep that in mind, Agent Sitwell."  
"Please, call me Jasper."  
And now he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes - and he was certain that there were wheezing noises coming from the drop ceiling.  
"If you insist, Jasper."  
"Uh, did you need a wing-man for your meeting with Barton? He can be... difficult."  
"Oh, I don't think I'll have any trouble with him, I spoke with Agent Romanoff over the weekend and she gave me some pointers." Phil may or may not have tilted his head up slightly as he spoke, making sure that his voice would carry up to the top of the room.  
"Well that would certainly be a point in your favour. Tell you what, I've got a meeting myself in about ten minutes, but do you have any plans for lunch?"  
"What?" Phil was caught completely off-guard by this, and unfortunately that gave Sitwell an in.  
"Well, I thought you could use a tour of the place, I can show you around."  
"Oh, that's not-"  
"I'll come back around one, and if you're not busy I can show you where the cafeteria is."  
"Agent Sitwell that isn't necessary."  
"I know, I'd just like to."  
"Okay, then. Well, if I'm not here then it's because one of the Avengers needed me. They are my priority right now."  
"Alright, I'll keep that in mind. See you this afternoon." Sitwell grinned at him and departed, while Phil closed his door and leaned against it, clenching his fists and resisting the urge to slam his head into the wood, repeatedly.  
"He is so into you! You should totally go on a date with him."  
"Shut up, Barton, and get out of the ceiling."  
"I can't believe he didn't hear me, I was breathing like a walrus when he started hitting on you."  
"That's why he's only a level five. Get down!"  
"Sure, whatever. You want me to blow something up at ten to one so you can get out of your little date?"  
"No, I want Steve to come in here and act like papa bear and scare him off."  
"Hey, I can be papa bear."  
"No, you can be baby bear and complain that your porridge is cold. Jas- Sitwell would think it was some kind of practical joke if I had agreed to lunch with you instead of him."  
"What? Phil, that hurts. You know that the junior agents have a betting pool on who can sleep with me first."  
"No, they have a betting pool on who can sleep with Stark first - they're too scared of Natasha to have any kind of bets placed on bedding you."  
"What?"  
"All the little baby agents, the blonde ones who you think are so cute? Someone started a rumour that you and Romanoff are secretly married. Not a one of them is game to make a move on you just in case it's true and their body is never found."

Phil had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning as Clint gaped, speechless for only the third time since Phil had known him, and in one of the other instances it had been the butt of an AK-47 to the face that had shut him up.

"Seriously? That's why they run away when I tell them jokes? But it's Tasha! I mean, I love her to pieces but... I've known her since she was thirteen! She's - she's like my sister. Ugh. It would - just ugh. No."

Phil did actually smirk at that.

"Well, then, if we can close that subject, can we actually discuss your mission reports, or rather, the lack thereof? And don't think you can get out of this - you're in my office at a time scheduled for a meeting, you're not escaping even if I have to tie you to the chair."  
"You know, that could be taken the wrong way."  
"And I'd let Stark photograph it. Sit down, shut up and be prepared to get a cramp from signing your name - we have three months of sit-reps to go over and we're not leaving until they're all correctly filled out."


	9. Steve, you're a national icon - remember that when you're in public.

By the time one PM rolled around, Phil had, unfortunately, finished all of his paperwork and had literally no excuses when Sitwell turned up at his new office, smiling and (again) offering to take him to the cafeteria. That was, until three seconds later the sound of heavy footfalls echoed down the hallway and a slightly-out-of-breath Steve Rogers propped himself up in the doorway, eyes widening slightly when he saw that Jasper Sitwell had one hand on Phil Carlton’s lower back, attempting to guide her out of the office.

“Phil! I’m sorry I’m late – Tony had me in the lab running tests on my shield. You ready to go?”  
“Go where?” It was Agent Sitwell who asked the question, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, staring at Steve as if he’d grown a second head.  
“Oh, I offered to show Agent Carlton around the place this afternoon, having just moved here from DC it’s a bit confusing. We scheduled a three hour block so we could take lunch, first, then do the tour and have a de-brief before she has to see Tony.” Phil had to hand it to Steve, when he wanted to be he could be forceful without actually stepping on toes – as he’d spoken he’d pushed off the doorjamb and offered his elbow, allowing Phil to step away from Sitwell’s hovering hand and up to Steve, looking up at him with an unabashed grin as he hooked a hand through the offered arm.  
“You did, too. I can’t believe I forgot. Must have been Agent Barton; he was being a little difficult during his debrief this morning.”  
“Oh, he’s always like that. I can take care of him, if you’d like? You’ve got a lot on your plate with all of the Avengers, after all.” Sitwell offered, even as Steve laughed.  
“Take it as a compliment, he’s only co-operative with people he doesn’t trust.” Steve explained, smiling down at Phil almost indulgently, and (against his will) Phil felt a blush rising up his neck as he smiled back, completely ignoring Sitwell’s comment.  
“Well he must have taken quite a liking to me, then, because I almost had to handcuff him to my desk to keep him in place for the entire hour.”  
“Yep, he definitely likes you. Now, where did you want to go for lunch? Tony tells me that the Japanese place on the corner does excellent sushi, or are you in the mood for something a little more relaxed? I can show you around the place after we’ve eaten.” Steve kept chattering as he led Phil away down the corridor, away from a frowning Sitwell, who was no doubt wondering why he’d been cock-blocked by Captain America over a transfer agent from Stark Industries.

As it eventuated, Steve was actually on Phil’s schedule for three hours that afternoon, followed immediately by an hour supposedly deigned to be spent in Tony Stark’s questionable company, so they did have time for a proper lunch. They were in the elevator when Phil let out a breath and looked up at Steve, letting go of his arm and trying to settle his roiling stomach with some deep breaths.

“Steve, I don’t know how to thank you.”  
“Let me take you to lunch, Phil. I still owe you.”  
“Steve, it wasn’t my idea to fake my own death – that was all Fury.”  
“Yes, but you didn’t kill him when you found out that he’d destroyed your trading cards.”  
“It was a close thing, I’ll give you that. But being taken to lunch twice a week by the Star-Spangled-Man himself helps make up for the crushing realisation that I’ll never find such a set again.”  
“Crushing? Really?”  
“Of course not. And sushi sounds great. Have you even had it, much?”  
“Yeah, actually, I have. Tony introduced me to it a few weeks ago, though I’m still not keen on the fishy ones. I usually have chicken and avocado.”  
“You could try the salmon rolls, they’re not bad. And salmon tastes the same cooked or uncooked, mostly.”

A leisurely lunch later (wherein Steve was recognised by only half a dozen people and barely had to sign any autographs – most New Yorkers were immune to the Avengers celebrity status, especially within a few blocks of SHIELD HQ) they were heading back towards the tower when Phil caught a glimpse of a flash to one side, and apparently Steve did, too. They both reacted instinctively, though Steve’s reaction was to grab Phil and turn his back to the flash even as Phil went for his gun – he ended up in a crushing hug while Steve crouched down slightly, protecting Phil with his broad shoulders as Phil pointed his Beretta at the pavement, trying to get a look around Steve at what the flash had been.

Suddenly, there were a dozen more flashes and Phil hastily holstered his gun as he heard the shouts – paparazzi. Dammit – this was just what they didn’t need right now.

Steve had gotten used to many things in this new century, but the invasiveness of this particular breed of supposed journalists was one thing that nobody, not even Tony Stark, was immune to. The paps loved to hate Steve, loved him because he provided so many candid shots doing everyday things but hated him because he never did anything to tarnish his squeaky-clean reputation. He really did seem to be too good to be true, but this moment might well be his undoing – because if the shouts were anything to go by, they thought that Phil was his date.

Things were going to get out of hand, and fast, if Phil didn’t contain the situation, but unfortunately for him, Steve went into protective mode and he didn’t even get a chance to formulate any kind of plan before Steve caught his hand and tugged him away at a brisk walk, heading back towards Stark tower, barely a hundred yards away.

This, however, just encouraged the photographers and the shouting intensified as they picked up the pace.

The moment they got to the main entrance of Stark Tower, however, the worst possible thing that could have happened, happened.

Tony Stark emerged, resplendent in a rumpled suit, sliding $3500 sunglasses over his eyes and grinning like a maniac, ignoring the blinding flash-bulbs and greeting Steve and Phil with open arms.

“Oh, you went to lunch without me? I’m disappointed! Steve, you promised that you’d tell me if you asked anyone out!”

Phil and Steve both glared at Tony even as he shot them a shit-eating grin and turned his back on them, raising one eyebrow at the gathered crowd and shouting towards the assembled flash-bulbs while Steve and Phil went through the doors into the merciful quiet of the lobby.

"I've got photos of them snuggling on the sofa - and the bidding starts at ten grand!" He called to the masses, and the flasbulbs went even madder as the shouting doubled in volume.

 

>>

>>>

>>>>

>>>>>

 

Apparently, thanks to Twitter, half of SHIELD knew that Captain Rogers had taken the new transfer from Stark Industries on a lunch date - and they knew it before she got back to her office.

Fury was waiting for them, and his mouth was twitching. The problem was, neither Steve nor Phil could tell if it was twitching in amusement or incandescent rage. They came to a stop just inside Philippa Carlton's office, and Steve closed the door just as Fury took a breath and began his tirade.

"You two had better clear this up with the media, and in a hurry. It was bad enough that those cell phone photos of you at the bar on Friday night did the rounds but this-"

"This, this is a misunderstanding-" Steve began, but Fury held up a hand and tapped a screen behind him, bringing up a large, semi-focused photograph of Steve and Phil, taken not three minutes earlier. From the angle it had been taken it looked as if they were kissing - Steve had Phil in an embrace with one hand on his back and the other on his neck, almost dipping him in the middle of the street.

"How is this a misunderstanding?" He demanded, jabbing a finger at the image even as both Steve and Phil simultaneously turned scarlet and both began to speak at once.

"It's not what it looks like-"

"I can explain-"

"Well the pair of you better get to explaining, because I have the PR team, not to mention the Council, demanding to know what the hell is going on that the newest recruit is suddenly making out with Captain Rogers."

"Oh, for god's sake, we were not making out! We saw the flashes and thought someone was attacking, I grabbed him to protect him and it was those horrible papparazzi... they must have taken the photo just as I grabbed him." Steve explained, while Phil just stared at a spot on the floor in front of him and tried to swallow the large object that was apparently lodged in his throat. What the hell? His eyes were burning, too... he breathed in deeply through his nose and tried to find his quiet place, but he couldn't get his heart rate to drop, it was pouding in his ears as the Director glared at both of them.

Fury sighed, and the image on the screen changed abruptly behind him, suddenly Captain America embracing a brunette woman outside the Tower was replaced with Tony Stark holding court on the same steps, each hand raised in his now-signature peace signs. The subtitle read 'Stark confirms Captain America has a girlfriend - sorry ladies!' and all three of them simultaneously groaned, even as Fury jabbed at a control on the screen, calling Tony's phone directly.

It was no real surprise that the call went straight to voicemail - because chances were Pepper Potts was already lambasting him for making such an outrageous statement to the media.

"Stark, you have twenty minutes to get your ass up here, you've made this mess worse and I'll be damned if you're getting out of helping us clean it up." Fury spat at the computer, then ended the call with an abrupt motion of his hand.

He turned back to Steve and Phil, and it was only through training (Steve) and extensive exposure (Phil) that neither man quailed beneath the glare, though Phil felt his cheeks heat up even further under the intense scrutiny. 

"Get the hell out of here, both of you. Take one of the un-marked cars and get back to Stark's place, now. Barton should be in the garage, he'll drive you. Neither one of you is to be seen in public until all of this has been dealt with - do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." they answered, before turning to leave, Steve holding the door open for Phil in what seemed to be a completely automatic action, before following him to the elevator.

They made it down four floors before an hysterical giggle escaped from Phil, at which point he looked up at Steve and found him biting his lower lip to hard it had turned white, trying not to laugh. 

The moment they made eye contact the entire facade shattered, they started laughing like a pair of loons and Phil found himself leaning against the wall of the elevator, gasping for air as Steve pressed a hand to the door, the other clutching his stomach as he tried to catch his own breath. Phil had slid to the floor, crouching on his heels, tears streaming down his face as he laughed harder than he had in months, and Steve was just starting to gather himself a little when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal a worried-looking Hawkeye - in full regalia, complete with his custom quiver and the new bow Tony had finished for him just a week ago secured over his chest.

Apparently the sight of Clint, ready for a fight, was enough to set them both off again and Steve doubled up, dropping to the floor next to Phil, giggling like mad as Clint stared down at both of them, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

"What the hell are you two laughing about?" He demanded. "Fury told me you both got ambushed by the media and I have to take you straight home to prevent an incident!"

"Oh - Clint, I'm sorry but-" Phil tried to speak, but he was laughing too hard.

"They think Phil's my- my girlfriend!" Steve told him, eventually, between gulps of air, sitting on the floor of the elevator with his legs straight out in front of him, one foot in the doorway, preventing it from shutting on them and returning them to the main floors of the building.

"What?" Clint asked, completely blank.

"We went out for lunch and got - dammit! Steve, stop laughing! We got ambushed by some photographers and one of them put a photo on Twitter-"

"It looks like we're kissing! But we're not, we're really not." Steve put in.

"And then Tony came out of the building and shouted something about photos of us cuddling..."

"Cuddling? What?" Clint was moving rapidly from bemused to confused, and his eyebrows had drawn together and down, he was also getting a little angry.

"He's lying, Clint. The only person I've cuddled with like... this-" he waved a hand to indicate the female form he was currently occupying, "-is you... and I don't think he got any photos of that!"

"JARVIS might have some." Steve put in, getting to one knee and offering Phil a hand to stand up, tugging him out of the elevator and allowing the doors to close.

"Well if he does then I'll just have to make sure they get deleted. But apparently Stark told the papparazzi that Steve and I are dating, so we have to get out of the public eye for a little while. Hence, you're taking us back to the Tower."

"Right. Right." Clint was nodding, still slightly off-kilter, but gestured to the black Acura behind him, indicating that they should get in. Steve rounded the car, but Clint caught Phil by one elbow as Cap got into the passenger seat.

"You - you didn't make out with Steve, did you?" He asked, keeping his voice low.

"What? No! Come on, Clint, it's Steve. I mean, he's my hero, but it's Steve!"

"Right, right. Just - just making sure that you weren't taking advantage of the whole being-a-girl thing to live out some fantasy of fucking Captain America-"

He was cut off by a firm slap to the face, his head snapping to the right as the sound reported through the enclosed space of the garage. 

"Give me those car keys - I don't want to be anywhere near you right now, Barton. Let alone in a confined space. Stay away from me until you get it straight in your idiot head that I would never do anything like that."

Clint dropped his gaze to his boots and held out the keys, silent. Phil snatched them from his palm and turned on his heel, wrenched the drivers' door open and threw himself into the car, slamming the door and taking off with a squeal of tyres.


	10. Clint really needs to learn how to keep his mouth shut

Clint stood at the foot of his own bed, he'd been pacing across and back in his bedroom for the last half hour, and he was now standing stock still, staring at the door of the bathroom that he was sharing with Phil.

The water had just started running, so Phil was clearly in there, and there went the rattle of the shower curtain - now she (he! dammit! just because Phil had boobs that didn't make him a girl!) he was under the water.

In the three days since Phil had smacked him in the face in the SHIELD garage, Clint had very carefully avoided coming into contact with his former handler - even going to far as to shower at SHIELD and sleep in the barracks for the first two nights.

Natasha had caught up to him on the third night and demanded to know what the hell was going on. Even under her glare he managed not to tell her - Clint had decided that his fuck-up was going to remain between himself and Phil, nobody else needed to know what a dick he'd made of himself.

The fact that not even Natasha knew why he'd been avoiding coming 'home' was, in a way, a good thing. It meant that Phil had decided something similar, or at least, he'd decided not to broadcast Clint's idiotic comment to the rest of the team. So he came home with her, slinking into the elevator and attempting to hide in the shadows as much as possible, getting an immediate lock on Phil's position in the house and avoiding coming into contact with the agent entirely by pretty much confining himself to his own bedroom.

Tony wasn't as subtle as Natasha had been, but apparently he recognised a guilty conscience when he saw one, because at around three AM he knocked on Clint's door and held out a half-bottle of Jack Daniels.

"What did you do?"

"Go away, Tony." Clint told him, knowing that he wouldn't listen but feeling compelled to at least try and assert his right to refuse the owner of the house access to his private quarters.

"So you fucked up worse than me, hey? And I'm the one who told the press that they've been secretly dating since Philippa Carlton moved out here from Washington."

Clint looked up from his position on the bed, and found Tony leaning on the doorjamb, the bottle still swinging from his hand, and Stark took that as his cue to come into the room and flop down on the other side of the bed, shoving the bottle in Clint's direction.

"I already drank half of it, you might as well have the rest. Steve is pissed at me right now so I'm doing the same thing you are."  
"What?"  
"Avoiding him, trying to think of something I can do to make it up for him, I mean, other than what I've already done. You saw the press conference?"  
"The one where you announced that it was all a big misunderstanding and Fury looked like he wanted to tear your head off and eat your insides?"  
"That’s the one."  
"Yes, I saw it. I was on sniper detail making sure that nobody was going to kill you while you were up on that podium. Nice speech, by the way." Clint unscrewed the cap and took a swig straight from the bottle, sighing as the alcohol burned all the way down his throat. Avoiding Phil had meant taking meals at strange hours and he hadn't actually eaten anything in almost eighteen hours - it wasn't going to take much booze to get him hammered so he recapped it and set the bottle aside, flopping down next to Tony.

"So?" Tony asked, turning his head to look at Clint, who continued to stare at the ceiling.  
"So, what?"  
"So, what did you do that has made avoiding Phil seem like the best thing to do for the last three days? Don't try and say you haven't been avoiding him, everyone's noticed. Thor keeps threatening to come and drag you down to the den by one ankle."  
"Who do I have to thank for putting him off that idea?"  
"Mostly Natasha. She said that if anyone was going to cause you an injury while trying to get you to watch movies with the rest of us it was going to be her. Thor likes her - keeps comparing her to someone called Sif."  
"Huh."  
"So, are you going to tell me or do I have to go through all the security footage from that day and try to lip-read every exchange you had with our favourite Agent?"

Clint sighed and arched his back, settling himself more comfortably on the bed and then decided, to hell with it, he had to tell someone.

"I asked Phil if he had made out with Steve."  
"Okay - everyone at SHIELD has been asking the same question since that photo hit Twitter."  
"I also asked if he was taking advantage of the whole being-a-chick thing to bang his hero."

Tony sat up at that, pushing himself upright so that he could stare down at Clint, open-mouthed.

"And you survivied?"  
"He smacked me in the face and called me a moron, told me to leave him alone until I got my head straight."  
"That's rough." Tony slumped back down onto the bed and contemplated the ceiling with Clint for a few minutes, before heaving a sigh.

"Well, Barton, there's really only one thing for it."

Clint groaned, because this could not be good. "Are you seriously going to give me advice on how to deal with Phil being pissed off at me?"

"Yes, I am, because I've managed to piss off pretty much every single person who knows me. Some of them have even threatened my wellbeing because I was acting like such a dick. Yet, they are all still friends with me; one of them even dated me for a while."  
"Pepper's threatened your wellbeing?"  
"More than once. Those heels are sharp and she's got a mean left hook. Anyway - the solution to your woes is to wait until he's doing something that he can't walk away from and corner him, apologise until he tells you to go away, apologise again and then leave him alone until he approaches you."  
"You know, Tony, just because he's got boobs right now, that doesn't mean that the methods you use with Pepper are going to work on him-"  
"Oh, that's not the method I use with Pepper. For her I hand her my black AMEX and arrange for the Louboutin store to be closed to the public for an afternoon so she can spend ridiculous amounts of my money on shoes. The corner-and-apologise-while-they-can't-escape thing is my method with Rhodey."

Clint considered this for a moment or two.

"And Rhodey still comes to visit, quite a lot."  
"Yep. He still loves me just as much as he did when we were kids."

Clint was silent for another minute or so until he asked the crucial question.

"What is he usually doing that he can't run away from when you corner him and apologise until he yells at you?"  
"Well, last time he was in the War Machine armour and I got JARVIS to do a remote lock-down, but I don't think that would work so well for you. The time before that... he was in the shower."  
"You walked in on your best friend in the shower?"  
"No, I walked into the bathroom when he was showering so that he couldn't run away while I apologised. Admittedly he was then pissed off about me not respecting personal space, something about boundaries, but he did appreciate that I was apologising."  
"So are you suggesting..." Clint drifted off and rolled his head to the side, his gaze landing on the bathroom door.  
"You've got a cast iron excuse, you share a bathroom. If you happen to walk in when he's in the shower you can apologise for that, then apologise for being a dick the other day, apologise again and when he starts shouting that he'll forgive you if you just get the fuck out, your job is done."  
"You are a magnificent bastard, Stark."  
"I know. But feel free to remind me anytime you like. I'm going to go reprogram the refrigerator so that the light flashes red, white and blue and see what Steve thinks."  
"Have fun." Clint called after Tony as he rolled off the bed and left the room, closing the door behind himself.

Clint resumed staring at the ceiling, trying to tell himself that walking into the bathroom while Phil was in the shower was a Very Bad Idea. 

He uncapped the bourbon and took another swig.

This was going to need some serious thought.

 

Three hours later he was pacing back and forth across his room, having finished most of the rest of the bottle of bourbon between three AM and now, and Phil was in the bathroom for his morning shower.

It was now or... tomorrow morning. And Clint wasn’t likely to have this much Dutch courage in his system at six AM tomorrow.

 

Slamming into the bathroom he started to talk before he’d even crossed the threshold.

“Phil I’m sorry about what I said the other day, it was a completely dick move-”  
“CLINT! Get out of here I’m in the damn shower!”  
“-and I don’t know what I was thinking, I mean I know what I was thinking but it was stupid to think that because you’d never, I mean-”  
“Barton I’m naked! I don’t care right now what the hell you said about me and Steve!”  
“Steve! Exactly! He’d never take advantage of you like this, I mean, I doubt he’s even noticed how hot you are-”  
“Clint, shut up! Please, just, shut up and get out of here!”  
“Phil, I have to do this, just let me apologise-”  
“You can apologise when I’m not naked and wet!”  
“Will you accept my apology if I wait until you’re done in the shower?”  
“Oh, for God’s sake- yes. Yes I will accept your apology if you let me finish my shower in peace!”  
“Really?”  
“Really; you can even wait in my room if you want to.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes! Just get the hell out of here!”  
“Okay, okay.” Clint stumbled a little, tripping over one corner of the bathmat and having to try twice before he could get a strong enough grip on the doorknob to open it and let himself into Phil’s bedroom.

He hadn’t been in there for a couple of days, and in that time a few changes had been made, including a little personalization thanks to a few of the things that had been picked up from Phil’s apartment - Clint had delivered the boxes himself the morning of his foot-in-mouth moment, so he hadn’t been able to see what Phil had done with the things in his new space, but now it was all laid out for him.

Clint crashed head-first onto the bed as the room spun - half a bottle of bourbon in under three hours, on an empty stomach and when sleep-deprived, is really not a good combination. 

Phil followed him out of the bathroom a moment later, his hair still slicked down and wet, sticking to his forehead, wrapped in a towel.

“What the hell is so important that you had to interrupt my shower, Barton?” he demanded, holding the towel in place with one hand, the other planted on his hip as he tried to pull off ‘indignant’ while practically naked.

“I wanted to apologise. For what I said, about you and Cap, the other day.” Clint muttered, his face pressed into Phil’s comforter. The room was still spinning.

“And you had to interrupt my shower to do that?” Phil unhooked one corner of the towel and scrubbed at his face, keeping himself covered with the rest of it and grateful, not for the first time, that everything Tony Stark owned was oversized and overpriced.

“Tony told me to do it.”  
“Oh, and Tony gives the best, most sensible advice.” Phil told him, practically dripping sarcasm.  
“He also gave me bourbon.”  
“Which is such a healthy breakfast.”  
“Three AM is not breakfast.”

Phil sighed, refastened the towel and sat down next to Clint, well, behind him, really. By this stage Clint was curled up in the foetal position on the top of the bed, his back to Phil, face still smushed into the coverlet.

Phil reached out and touched Clint’s shoulder, tugging at him until he straightened out a little and rolled onto his back, looking up at Phil from the corner of one bleary eye.

“Clint, I accept your apology, I know you weren’t thinking when you asked that idiotic question.”

Clint gaped at him for a moment, and before Phil could move, he’d sort of launched himself up and caught Phil in a tight hug, pressing his face against Phil’s bare neck and shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Phil, I have no idea why I said something that dumb.”

Phil froze, trying not to move too much as Clint hugged him, spluttering something about being dumb as he gripped Phil through the towel, hugging him tight and smelling strongly of Jack Daniels.

“Clint, it’s okay, I promise. I forgive you, really-”  
“But I’m an ass, Phil, that was really uncalled for!” Clint objected, gripping Phil by both shoulders and holding him at arms’ length. “I mean, even suggesting that you would do something like that, let alone that Steve would take advantage of you-”  
“Clint-”  
“I mean, he’s like, perfect. There is no way he’d be anything but a gentleman-”  
“Clint!” Phil almost shouted and Clint finally lifted his gaze so that he was looking Phil in the eye.

After a few seconds’ pause, to let Clint’s breathing even out, Phil spoke.

“Clint, I accept your apology, okay? I know you didn’t mean anything by it, and I’m sorry that I slapped you.”  
“I deserved it.” Clint muttered, and pushed into Phil again, wrapping his arms around the smaller body and returning his face to the juncture of shoulder and neck.

Phil froze again, entirely unsure about how to react to this... situation... eventually settling on placing his hands on Clint’s shoulders while the archer tried to even out his breathing.

“I’m such a dick.” Clint eventually managed to murmur, turning his head so that he was speaking to Phil’s neck.

“Yeah, but you’ve always been a dick, it’s not like you’re being especially dickish just because I’ve been turned into a girl.”  
“I’m still a dick.”  
“I know. Can I get dressed, now?”

Clint pulled back a little, his arms still wrapped loosely around Phil’s midsection, and looked at his handler through somewhat bloodshot and reddened eyes.

“Sure, sure, I’m sorry, I’m drunk, Phil.”  
“I can tell. You smell like a distillery.”  
“Tony gave me the booze.”  
“Tony gives everyone booze, come on, let’s get you to bed.”  
“Can’t I just sleep here?” Clint asked, almost whining. Phil rolled his eyes.  
“Fine, whatever. I guess I can get changed in the bathroom.”  
“I won’t look, I promise...” Clint told him, finally letting go and leaning back on the bed until he was sprawled across it, eyes closed and his feet barely touching the floor.

Phil disentangled himself from Clint and headed for his closet - he was getting better at the whole ladies’ clothing thing, though his bras were still causing problems he could now get into them without assistance - and pulled today’s suit from the rack, along with a dark blue shirt, then went to his dresser and found a bra and some panties before returning to the bathroom.

 

By the time he came back out, hair dried and combed, dressed except for stockings and shoes, Clint had shifted so that he was stretched along the bed, on the side that Phil didn’t sleep on, eyes closed, breathing even. Phil barely spared him a glance as he sat down on the foot of the bed and pulled his knee-high stockings on, wondering if he should maybe shave his legs at some point, wasn’t that what most women did? Or should he get them waxed? No, that seemed like an unnecessary amount of pain when shaving was easy - he’d shaved his face every day since he was nineteen, legs couldn’t be much harder to manage. His underarms, too, maybe?

He felt the bed move and ignored it, Clint was probably just shifting in his sleep, the man tossed and turned enough when he was sober, he probably kicked like a mule when he was sleeping off half a bottle of bourbon. 

“You’re so awesome, Phil.” Clint’s voice was much closer than it should have been and Phil turned to see what the hell Clint was up to. He found himself nose-to-nose with the archer and pulled his head back slightly, alarmed by the proximity.

“Thanks, I think.” Phil told him, turning his attention back to the stockings - tugging them up to his knees and then smoothing his pants down over them.

“And you’re really pretty.”  
“Clint, you’re drunk.”  
“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re a hot chick. Tony was right.”  
“Please, never ever say that again. The universe might self-destruct.” Phil told him, reaching for his shoes and pulling them on, turning to say goodbye to Clint and admonish him for not sleeping, but instead of a half-asleep sniper he found a pair of wide blue eyes staring at him, almost contemplative.

“Okay, Clint, I have to go, now. Breakfast, work, the whole bit.”

“Alright.”  
“You go to sleep, okay?”  
“You’re not going to look after me?” Clint asked, sticking his bottom lip out and doing his best sad-face.  
“Would I look after you any other time you’re suffering from something self-inflicted?”  
“Maybe?”  
“If you were hung-over already I might be inclined to hold your hair back while you puke, but seeing how you’re still drunk I can’t really do much to help you, can I?” Phil stood up and turned to face Clint, who was now perched on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under his body as he looked up at Phil.

“You need to sleep it off, Specialist. Back to bed.”  
“But Mom, I don’t wanna go to sleep!” Clint whined, tipping his head back and groaning. Phil just smirked at him and stepped up to the bed, grasping Clint by both shoulders and leaning down until he was level with Pouting Barton.

“If you go to sleep now then by the time you wake up I’ll be done with my work for the day and we can hang out - okay?”

Clint had gone very still when Phil put his hands on his shoulders, and as he got closer, Clint’s breathing sped up, his heart rate skyrocketing as Phil’s piercing gaze met his. He didn’t actually hear what Phil said, something about hanging out and work, instead he was too busy trying to resist his baser urges.

Unfortunately, Clint Barton is a very impulsive creature and relies far too heavily on his instincts to guide his actions.

So when Phil paused, smiling slightly, waiting for Clint to tell him that he was going to sleep for the day and would happily watch trash TV when Phil came back upstairs, Clint did something impulsive, instinctive and incredibly stupid.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Phil’s.


	11. alcohol is always the answer. what was the question, again?

Phil froze, and after two or three seconds, maybe half an hour or possibly several very long days, Clint drew back.  
“Love you, Phil.” He murmured, and, with a sigh, fell back onto the bed and promptly started snoring.

Phil remained where he was, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands in mid-air where he had been grasping Clint, and a moment later, Steve’s voice floated in from the hallway.

“Uh, Phil? Are you good to go? Because Natasha says we’re leaving-”   
“Sure, sure I’m - just let me uh, I have to grab...” Phil cast about for something, anything, to occupy his hands and came up with his cell phone and wallet, sliding each into their respective pockets of his jacket and then joining Steve in the hallway, shaking his head a little to try and clear it.  
“Are you okay, Phil? You look a little flushed. You’re not coming down with something, are you?”  
 “No, no... just something Clint said.”  
“Crass?”  
 “You could say that.” Phil decided to stop talking, then, because Steve gave him a strange look, but just led the way down the stairs and into the garage where they found Natasha waiting.  
“Where’s Clint?” She asked, one eyebrow raised slightly.  
“He’s taking a personal day.” Phil told her, sliding into the front seat as Steve held the door for him, keeping his eyes on his phone and steadfastly avoiding Natasha’s piercing gaze.  
“So Tony took the bottle to his room, I was wondering where he’d gone to when he vanished with Jack Daniels in tow.” It looked like she was going to let the subject drop, and Phil was grateful for that at least. He relaxed in his seat and pulled his phone out to check his e-mails, something he’d neglected to do earlier, and smiled a little when he heard Steve ask about breakfast from the back seat. It was, after all, barely seven AM.  
“Drive-thru Starbucks, any objections, Phil?”   
“Get me a bear claw. I’ve got e-mails to answer.”  
“Sure thing.” Natasha hit the gas and twenty minutes later, having answered half a dozen of the non-urgent requests, Phil was able to boot up his actual computer and check the rest of the e-mails that he’d received, logged into first Philippa Carlton’s account and then Agent Coulson’s, routing the answers to Agent Coulson’s replies through a server in Beijing. 

It was odd, even though he knew, intellectually, that SHIELD ran just fine without him there, it was strange to witness it actually happening. He wasn’t concerned, exactly, but it seemed that Agent Coulson, “in Beijing” was getting fewer e-mails sent his way as his “temporary replacement Agent Carlton” was asked the questions first. 

In some ways he was working two jobs - covering his own actual position as Avengers Liaison live in New York, while still answering higher-level queries via e-mail in his capacity as a Level 7 Field Agent on active service.

He wondered if it would be inappropriate to set an out-of-office reply for Phil Coulson that read something along the lines of ‘Shot in the shoulder, I’ll get back to you when I get out of this floating hospital. If it’s urgent, call Fury.' Then again, Nick Fury was not a man famous for his sense of humor. He decided to run something similar past the Director, though, Phil was fairly certain that he never did this much office-work while he was on assignment, usually.  
It wasn’t until lunch-time, when his phone buzzed just once, telling him that he had a text message, that he even gave any further thought to what Clint had done that morning.

+Phil I’m a jerk. Sorry.+

He stared at the text and the sender, it was, of course, from Clint. 

+You apologised, Barton, that’s the definition of not being a jerk. How’s your head?+

Apparently Clint hadn’t been expecting such a swift response, because he didn’t reply, so he’d either put his phone down and wandered off, or was ignoring the text. Phil decided to let it slide, and if Clint was willing to follow his lead, then they could pretend that nothing had happened. 

Really, Clint had enough bourbon in his system, Phil was frankly surprised that he remembered, well, anything of their conversation. Then, just when he’d decided that Clint was not going to send anything back, the phone buzzed.

+I woke up in your bed without pants. I think I might have been a jerk at some point.+

Well, that was unexpected.

+You had pants on when I left you there, you might have taken them off yourself.+

+Huh. So I didn’t do anything stupid like, I dunno, try and kiss you?+

+Why would you do something like that?+

 Phil found himself, sitting at his (temporary) desk, frowning at his phone even as he sent that response.

Clint didn’t reply immediately, because apparently he didn’t have a response for that. So Phil took advantage of the lull in ‘conversation’ and picked up his desk phone, dialing Darcy Lewis.

“Agent Coulson’s office, he’s not here right now but I can take a message.” she answered, and Phil almost laughed at the irony.

Darcy was the only person, aside from the Avengers, Director Fury and one of the doctors who had taken his blood samples after the initial transformation, who knew what was going on with him, and also knew who he really was.

“Hey, Darcy, it’s me.”   
“Hi, Phil! How’s it going?”  
“Fantastic. Want to get some lunch?”   
“What?”

Okay, so maybe he hadn’t though it through very well, but Darcy was the only other... girl... he could actually talk to. Natasha was all well and good for a sparring session, and Pepper knew how to shop like nobody else, but Darcy was about the only other female he could talk to properly. Hell, before his unwilling gender-reassignment she had been one of the few people he was actually straight with, and could let his guard down around.

“I’m offering to take you to lunch on your boss’ corporate VISA, don’t question it.”  
 “Can we make it a long lunch?”  
 “We can call it a day and do tequila shots for all I care, I just want to get out of here.”

Darcy fell silent at the other end of the line for a moment, and Phil waited patiently, hearing some scuffling in the background.

“Give me ten minutes to wrap some things up and I’ll meet you at the elevator.”  
 “I’ll be there in five and do you have any makeup I can borrow?”  
“Oh, god, Phil, what happened? Are you finally taking me up on the offer of a makeover, because that's awesome, but what the hell happened to prompt this-”   
“Can I at least get some booze in me before you start the interrogation?” Phil asked, interrupting her tirade.  
“Sure, sure. Meet you at the elevators in ten.”  
“Great.”

As he hung up the desk phone, Phil carded a hand through his hair and wondered what the hell he was doing, right at the same moment his cell phone buzzed, just once, sliding across the desk about half an inch and the display lit up.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE FROM CLINT BARTON

He didn’t want to open it. Anything that had taken Clint that long to compose was likely to break something, so instead he locked the screen and slid the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket, got to his feet and picked up the small black purse he’d somehow acquired, checking its’ contents before leaving the desk, making for the elevators in his black ballet flats and hoping that Darcy wouldn’t get too personal with the questions.


	12. don't let the girls loose when a makeover is in the works

Darcy met Phil at the elevators seven minutes later, hiking her own purse up onto her shoulder and greeting Phil with a grin.

“So, there’s this bar around the corner that does wicked cocktails.”  
“It’s lunchtime - we could be coming back, you know.”

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening. I told Pepper what you said.”  
“You - oh hell.” Phil stepped into the elevator, followed by Darcy, and the doors slid closed, leaving them in there alone. “You told her that I’d agreed to the makeover, didn’t you?”  
“You asked about makeup for the first time since this-” Darcy waved a hand at his decidedly female form - “-all happened.”  
“That does not mean I want you two to make me over?”  
“Why not? Take advantage of the new body and all...”

“I think I need a serious distraction, and that letting you and Ms Potts loose will provide an excellent one. Tony’s going to freak out if he sees me in a dress - this is not going to end well, Darcy.”

They got out on the ground floor a moment later and were greeted by a waving Pepper, Phil didn’t want to think about how she’d gotten to the Tower so fast, but decided to roll with it.

“He’ll get over it, I'm sure. It's Bruce I'm really worried about, you know, the heart rate thing and all. Pepper!” Darcy waved back and dragged Phil after her until Pepper hugged them both and then gestured towards the sleek black town car waiting outside, Happy Hogan holding the door open for them. Darcy slid in first, and Pepper pushed Phil into the middle, watching as the agent leaned back in the seat and let out a long sigh, relaxing at last.

“That bad a morning, Phil? I knew that some of the guys at SHIELD were hard up for fresh meat, but surely they’re leaving well enough alone, now?” Pepper asked, joining him in the back seat and tucking her purse behind her knees as Happy got into the drivers’ seat and they took off.  
“Well, today was my first day back after the thing with Steve, so there were looks-”  
“And rumours flying, of course. So you’re taking a half day. Darcy informs me that you’re considering taking us up on the makeover thing?”  
“I’m considering allowing you two to distract me for the afternoon.” He tipped his head back to rest on the top of the seat, letting his eyes slide closed as he kept talking.

“I mean, I acquiesced to the purse when not every suit I owned had enough pockets for me to actually carry everything I needed with me,” he told them, gesturing to the plain black purse on his lap, “But I figure, if I’m going to be this way for a while, I might as well embrace it. So, yes, you can get me into a dress or two. And some makeup - not heaps! Just... I don’t know? Mascara?”

“Don’t worry, Phil, we won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. And as for dresses, well... we’ll have to see how you feel once we get you into Barney’s.”

 

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Phil slid his hand into the pants pocket where his phone was still sitting against his leg, the message from Clint unread as yet.

 

“Should we get lunch, first?”

“That’s where we’re going - there’s an amazing sushi place that I know, we’ve got a booth reserved and there will be martinis waiting for us when we get there.” Pepper informed him, tapping away at her BlackBerry before returning the device to her purse and grinning at both Phil and Darcy.

“Awesome!” Darcy exclaimed, and Phil smiled, a little. It was so much easier, sometimes, to just let someone else take the reins for a change.

 

Of course, it had been a long, long time since Phil Coulson had been shopping for anything besides suits and ties- all the casual clothing he owned was at least a decade old, and most of it barely worn, thanks to how little down-time he got working for SHIELD. The suits that he wore in the field were all tailored by the team at SHIELD, and if he ever had an occasion to need anything more formal, well. The last family wedding he’d been invited to had been five and a half years ago, and acquiring a tuxedo had been a matter of submitting the right forms.

 

Apparently clothes shopping with a female body was a hell of a lot more complicated, and Phil was really rather glad that he had a second martini with lunch, because being a bit buzzed while he had garments thrown at him over the top of various fitting-room doors helped a lot.

 

Darcy decided at some point to join in on the trying-things-on party, and ended up spending what Phil thought was an irresponsible amount of money on a red dress, until Pepper pointed out that the price he was looking at was the twice-reduced mark, and the original price was somewhere much, much higher on the irresponsible scale.

 

“Why don’t you let me pick up the tab for that one, Darce? I owe you for covering everything so effectively this week.”  
“Oh, Phil, no, I can’t-”  
“Yes, you can. And you can get shoes to match then when we find me something that looks just as good we can shock Tony Stark into silence simultaneously.”

“If you insist, Phil.”  
“I do. Now, where did that purple-blue one go? I liked it.” He picked up the hanger holding the blue-purple iridescent silk dress, with a high halter neckline and a below-the-knee hem, completely backless.

“Oh, hang on- I’ll have to wear that sticky-tape stuff, right?” he asked, slipping the halter over his neck and twisting to see how the fabric shifted, the colour changing from navy blue to a deep purple as the angles changed.

“Probably. But you don’t wear that kind of thing for hours at a time - it’s for an event, or to show something off.”

“Or when you want to scare Tony bad enough to make the reactor pop out of his chest.” Pepper put in, eyeing the dress speculatively. “We really should have called Natasha in on this.”  
“Yeah, we should have.” Darcy sighed, reaching out to touch the material of Phil’s dress.  
“It’s a good thing I decided to find out why all three of you were in Prada without me.” Natasha put in from behind Pepper, making Darcy jump so much she actually fell off the chair she had been perched on. 

Phil just smiled at her, and Pepper recovered remarkably well for someone who was not field trained.

“I’m not even going to ask how you found us, I’m just glad you’re here. Now, what do you think of that one?” Pepper asked, pointing at the dress that Phil still had looped around his neck.

“Almost perfect, but I think I spotted something better a couple of stores away. You’re, what, a size ten, Phil?”  
“About that.” Pepper supplied, as Phil’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. He’d been accepting garments from Pepper and Darcy without so much as glancing at the tags, secure in the knowledge that they were much better with womens’ sizing than he ever would be.

“Great - there’s also the Louboutin outlet just up the street, we can get Darcy her shoes, there.”  
“Sweet!” Darcy exclaimed, hugging her red dress to herself as Phil returned his purple-blue one to the rack. Natasha led the way to the register and Phil paid for the dress, they waited while it was carefully wrapped, boxed and then slid into a carry-bag, before leaving the store like a line of ducklings.

 

Apparently, when Pepper and Natasha combined forces, they could move Heaven and Earth, not to mention most of the Avengers.

 

“We’re meeting the boys at this rooftop place I know, so before we go there we are going back to my place to get ready.” Natasha informed them at around six PM. They had spent the rest of the afternoon, once Darcy’s red Prada dress had been purchased, strolling up and down Madison, chatting and shopping and Phil was astonished to say that he had actually rather enjoyed the entire experience, especially as it was evidently all for his benefit. Pepper and Natasha had point blank refused to try anything on until they had found a dress that Phil liked and was happy to wear in public, then matching shoes, accessories and a plain silver star necklace from a tiny vendor’s stall on a corner.

“You might as well show off your fan-boy side as much as you can, Phil.”

“I guess...”  
“Besides, it looks great with that colour, silver really works with dark blue.”

“Oh, okay, then. But I’m not getting my ears pierced, no matter what you say.”  
“We know, we know. Just humour us and get the necklace and the bracelets?”  
“Okay, okay, damn! Can we concentrate on someone else if I get them both?”

“Yes.” Natasha assured him, so he handed over a fifty and accepted the four stacking silver bangle-bracelets with dark blue stones set in them, and the plain silver star necklace on the fine silver chain, wrapped in paper and slid into the bag next to the box containing the dark blue wedge heels he’d picked out. The heel was barely two inches, and he’d been able to walk confidently around the entire store in them, so he thought he’d be safe.

 

The crowning glory had been the dress that Natasha had found for him, though - a one-shoulder dark blue piece that had a lace overlay and a single sleeve; Pepper had zipped it up and he’d turned to look at his reflection, mouth falling open when he saw an attractive woman staring back at him, her curves accentuated by the lines of the dress, blue eyes shining and her short dark hair a little messed up from all the things she’d been trying on that afternoon.

 

For the first time since he’d been hit with the bolt of green light, Phil thought of himself in terms of being female.

 

“Holy shit, I’m hot.” he blurted out, and the other three dissolved into giggles.

“We’ve been telling you that for almost a fortnight, Phil.”  
“Yeah, but, wow....” he drifted off, tilting his head to the side and tracing his fingers across the neckline of the dress, from the top of his right shoulder to just above the swell of his left breast.

“Natasha, you are a genius.”  
“I know. Come on, girls, let’s find Pepper something just as jaw-dropping and see how many of the boys drop their drinks when we walk onto that rooftop.” Natasha told them.

 

>>

>>>

>>>>

>>>>>

 

Somehow, through what were undoubtedly either illegal, unethical or questionable methods, Pepper Potts and Natasha Romanov had arranged for a rooftop bar, one of the more exclusive locations in Manhattan, to be set aside for exclusive Avengers use that evening. The fact that the building was owned by Stark Industries no doubt helped, but that Natasha was able to show the other girls (including Agent Hill, who had been summoned to join them in Natasha’s apartment once the plan for the evening had started to fall into place)  the security feed of the rooftop on her phone was extremely impressive.

The best part, according to Pepper, had been watching the Stark Tower feeds earlier, witnessing Steve badgering and snapping at Tony until he was in his tuxedo, then shoving him into the elevator, ensuring that the ever-tardy Tony Stark would not only arrive at the party in reasonable shape, but that he would in fact be early.

“Phil, can he come and live with us? Please?” Pepper asked as they watched the rooftop feed, while Steve plucked a glass of amber liquid out of Tony’s hand, replacing it with plain soda water as Tony scowled. She twisted in her seat to look at him across the room, and spotted Phil, seated in the corner, staring at his cell phone, oblivious to the goings-on around him.

Almost a full minute later, the other three women had fallen silent as well, spotting Phil staring at his phone in the corner while Pepper considered him.

“Phil? Phil!”

“Huh? What?” He looked up, guilty, and dropped his phone into the black clutch purse on his lap, leaning back in the chair and trying to look nonchalant.

“Phil, what was on your phone that is so scary?”

“Scary?” he asked, but apparently nobody was buying the innocent act.  
“You looked terrified. What the hell is in your phone? Did Sitwell leave a creepy message?”  
“No- nothing like that! It’s just-”  
“Oh, please tell me that one of the junior agents hit on you; that would just be so perfect!” Darcy exclaimed, and before Phil could stop her, she had darted forward and snatched the purse from between his fingers, extracting the phone and unlocking the screen. 

“There’s only a message from Agent Barton on here, oh, Phil, that’s just boring-” She began, but kept tapping at the screen. The message opened and she stopped speaking as she read it, her mouth slowly falling open as her eyes widened.

“What? What is it, Darcy?” Pepper asked, stepping over to read the message over her shoulder.

As they both read the text, Phil felt a blush rising, and got to his feet, but not quickly enough to stop Natasha and Maria both reading the message before he got to them.

“Oh, Phil, honey, what are you going to do?” Maria asked, looking up at him with something like sympathy in her expression.

“What am I going to do? What the hell did he write?!” Phil demanded, stepping over to them and reaching for the phone.

“You- you haven’t read this, yet?” Darcy asked, pulling the phone back as his fingers brushed it.  
“No, I was going to wait until we were in the car-”  
“Phil, you need to read this, right now.”  
“Okay, give me the phone."

She handed it over, and he felt his stomach do something rather unpleasant as he looked down at the screen, entirely uncertain as to what he could expect to find there.  



	13. bite the damn bullet and be careful not to shoot yourself in the foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, yes. Apologies that it's taken so damn long, but pregnancy (and the illness that apparently accompanies it) caused the worst case of writers' block I've ever experienced.  
> However!  
> Here it is! The next chapter and it's good and LONG for you lot!
> 
> Love you all.
> 
> \--Anna

“Phil, you can’t back out of this just because of one little text message.” Natasha told him as he started to scrabble at the bangles on his wrists, shucking them off and tossing them onto the bed and reaching up to unclasp his necklace, pacing up and down in front of the bed, surprisingly steady in his wedge heels.  

“He sent this _six hours ago_ , Tasha, and I haven’t replied. I’ll be lucky if he even shows up-” Phil told her, but was stopped cold when she caught him by an elbow and spun him ninety degrees so that she could meet his eyes. 

“He’s already there - look.” Natasha held up her StarkPhone and showed Phil the live feed from the rooftop bar where the boys had been sent.

Tony and Steve were both there, both in tuxedoes, Thor was looking up at the stars, dressed in something that was apparently the Asgardian equivalent of formal wear - it wasn’t his cape and armour, but it was black leather pants and a dark blue shirt with laces down the front of the deep ‘v’ neck, while his hair was restrained at the nape of his neck. Bruce had just stepped up to the bar, in a dark suit with a grey shirt and a silver tie that set it off beautifully. He’d even managed, somewhat, to restrain his curls.

Then there was Clint.

Phil watched as the archer moved through the space, approaching the bar and ordering something that he downed in a single swallow, without grimacing, then tugged at the neck of his shirt - he was in a tuxedo as well, though Phil was fairly certain that the bow-tie would not actually be black when if he got close enough to inspect it; the last time Barton had been forced into formal wear for an undercover operation he had insisted that he should at least be allowed to customise one part of his wardrobe and had somehow, miraculously, acquired a very dark purple bowtie with iridescent arrows woven through the silk.

“Oh.” Phil kind of deflated at that - seeing Clint in that tuxedo had always had a strange, stomach-swooping kind of affect on him, but now, well. Now that he’d seen that text message, he suddenly felt virtually naked in a knee length one-shoulder dress.

“Do- do you think I should even reply? I mean, we’re heading over there right now anyway...” He asked, uncertain, opening the floor to the rest of the room, hoping that the wisdom of the crowd wasn’t just a myth.

“I wouldn’t.” Darcy piped up after a very long ten seconds where the women all glanced at each other. “I mean, if you haven’t replied by now, you can just show up on the rooftop, and see how he reacts.”

 “I don’t know, Darcy-” 

“Phil, ‘ **I’m not sorry that I kissed you and I think I want to do it again** ’ is about as direct a message as I’ve ever seen from any man, let alone someone like Clint.” Natasha put in, and Phil felt his cheeks heating up as he turned the cell phone over in his hand.

“Look, come on. Put your phone in your purse and those bangles back on and we’re going to the bar and are going to do some serious drinking.”

“Are you sure?” For some reason, Phil couldn’t shake the feeling that even going to this event was going to be a huge mistake.

“Yes. And if you don’t get into the elevator willingly then I’m going to have to force you.” Natasha told him, which was more than enough to have Phil grabbing his purse, bangles and scurrying towards where the rest of the ladies were already waiting to make their way to the ground floor.

Somehow, he still has no idea how, Phil survived the twenty minute limousine ride (Pepper, again, using her Stark connections, not that anyone complained) and even the ascent in the mirrored elevator to the rooftop garden, but he did sort of hide behind the rest of them when the doors opened and a familiar voice called out to them.

“Ladies! And Phil!” Tony was, naturally, the first one across the floor when the elevator arrived, and approached with arms outstretched. Pepper, stepping forward, caught one hand and kissed him on the cheek before sweeping past him and making a beeline for the bar.

"Hands to yourself, Stark." Natasha commented, keeping herself between Tony and Phil, hooking an arm through Phil's and stepping around Tony as he leered at Darcy (or, more accurately, Darcy's boobs) and they came face-to-face with Steve, who was grinning widely as his cheeks turned rapidly pink.

"Oh, wow." was all he could manage, and Phil found himself smiling back at the Captain, his own cheeks heating up; he just prayed that the makeup would hide most of it.

"We'll take that as a compliment, Steve." Natasha replied, smiling that secretive smile that she saved for the people she loved.

"Well, you should, you both look amazing... all of you look amazing. How did you manage to organize this all so fast?"

"You'll have to ask Pepper, she did most of the work." Phil told him, looking around at the rest of the rooftop and biting his lip when he spotted Clint, still lurking near the bar, not looking in their direction, instead, intent on another nearby rooftop while he nursed a short tumbler with amber liquid in it.

Steve and Natasha continued to chat, and Phil stepped to the side, moving towards the bar and ordering himself a Cosmopolitan from the opposite end to where Clint was hovering.

He set his purse down on a nearby table and perched on the edge of the barstool next to it, sipping at his drink while he watched Clint, waiting for the man to notice that he was being observed and turn to look at him.

It took until a count of almost thirty, which surprised Phil, because usually Barton would spot a watcher within ten or fifteen seconds at most.

What he hadn't been expecting was the _smirk_ that Clint was wearing when he did meet Phil's gaze, or that he'd simply saunter over without a pause, downing the last of his drink as he approached.

"You clean up nice, Coulson." he said by way of greeting, and Phil felt one of his eyebrows rise without conscious input from him.

"I could say the same of you, Barton."

"Thanks. Like the tie?" Clint leaned a little closer, and Phil was amused to discover that he'd been right - the bow-tie was the navy blue number with the arrows woven through it.

"I've seen that one before, remember the mission in Berlin?"

"Considering that this tie was the only piece of that tuxedo that I managed to salvage, it's kind of hard to forget."

"I've still got the vest from the suit I wore that night, though my own tie was a lost cause. I think I still owe you twenty bucks, don't I? After the epee swords on the wall turned out to be real, and sharpened?"

"Probably. But I got to see you fencing with a Duke while wearing a three-piece-suit, so it was worth it."

"You saw that? I thought you were already on the roof by the time the swords came down from the wall?"

"Nah, I was on the balcony. Knocked a couple of goons out and spent a good two or three minutes drinking Dom straight from the bottle while you two battled it out down in the foyer."

"What? Seriously?" Phil rolled his eyes at Clint, taking a drink of his own cocktail as a waiter approached with a glass of scotch for Clint, setting it down at the archers' elbow and disappearing back towards the bar. "I'd been kicked in the side and had two broken ribs, could barely breathe and you were sipping champagne, playing audience, while the guy tried to slit my throat?"

"Hey! Where do you think the empty champagne bottle that brained him came from?"

Phil paused, remembering - after he'd spent twenty solid minutes battling with the guy, finding himself evenly matched while fencing for the first time since college, he'd begun to tire and had been about to make a stupid move, lunging for the guys' femoral artery, when an empty champagne magnum had come flying from the balcony above where a fight had broken out, and hit the Duke square on the temple, knocking him unconscious and giving Phil the opportunity to take his cell phone and wallet, zip-tie his hands together behind his back and make his escape, meeting Clint and Natasha at the safehouse two hours later.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

They fell into an uneasy silence, both sipping their drinks and steadily avoiding each others' eyes.

"So-"

"Did you get-" They both began at once, and Phil couldn't help but laugh, before lifting his drink back to his mouth, trying to hide the smile.

"You first, Barton."

"No way, Coulson. Ladies take the honours."

"You're calling me a lady? I'll have you know that Natasha gave me a crash course in how to kick someone's ass while wearing a skirt."

"That's a dress." Clint pointed out, and Phil rolled his eyes at the obvious deflection combined with classic avoidance of the topic that neither of them were keen to touch on.

"Yes, and it's actually shorter than the skirt that we trained in, so I'm not too sure about how I'd go-"

"What?" 

"Yeah, the skirt she put me in for training was closer to my knees, and nowhere near as tight as this one." Phil slid forward on the stool, standing up and twisting around a little, trying to get a look at how his dress was faring so far.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm surprised Tony didn't tell you all about it, he thought he was being sneaky, watching us train, but JARVIS tattled."

"That's another thing I've been meaning to ask you; how did you get that AI on your side? It's never that nice to me!"

"That's probably because you refer to him as 'it'. JARVIS is a dude, Barton."

"It's an artificial intelligence."

"With an assigned gender."

"I can't help that I find it- fine, _him_ \- creepy."

"You spent an entire afternoon trying to convince him to call you 'Dave' and when he finally did you fled the tower and hid at my apartment in Chelsea for three weeks."

"He used the HAL voice, Phil!"

"It was your own, fault, Barton."

"It was Tony's fault, actually, he admitted that he tweaked the programming to freak me out."

"Oh, and I suppose that what you did this morning was Tony's fault, too, for giving you the bottle?"

Clint stopped short at that, his mouth open, eyes going wide.

"Wha- Tony? But-"

"Natasha told me that he vanished with half a bottle of Jack Daniels, and you were reeking of the stuff when you accosted me this morning."

"I wasn't that drunk."

"I know that, Clint, I know what your alcohol threshold is."

Clint paused at that, then took the last mouthful of his drink, smirking.

"So you knew that the passing out was faked."

"Of course I did, but Steve was waiting on me, and I didn't have time to dissect your motives right then."

"But you do, now." Clint asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Apparently."

"Did you get the girls to dress you up on purpose just to confuse me even more?"

"No, I got them to do this because it doesn't look like this... curse, or whatever... is going to wear off anytime soon, so I might as well embrace the whole being-a-woman thing. That and last time Loki did something to me I ended up with permanent damage, so I'm not really expecting anything less this time around."

"Oh, yeah, speaking of, how's the scar?"

"Most of my bras rub against it - Natasha showed me a trick with a handkerchief that stops it from being too irritating."

"Might have to ask about that one."

"I could show you, if you want." Phil said, and almost immediately regretted it, realising exactly how misleading that sentence could be.

"...maybe later."

Again, awkward silence reigned, and Phil finished his Cosmo, finding it replaced almost immediately by the extremely efficient waiter, who replaced Clint's scotch with something clear and sparkling.

"So, are you going to ask, or am I?" Phil said, eventually, sipping delicately at his cocktail, determined to get past whatever awkwardness there was.

"Ask what?" Clint's eyebrow went up this time, and he took a mouthful of his own drink, mirroring Phil's movements.

Phil took a deep breath and smiled, deciding that he might as well just jump right in.

"I got your last text message."

Clint almost choked on his drink.

"Yeah, that one." Phil reassured him, keeping his glass near his face as he tried not to smile too broadly.

"You mean the one you never replied to?"

"I mean the one that I didn't see until less than an hour ago."

"Oh." Clint considered this, then looked around the rooftop, frowning a little. "So, you mean, you and Pepper-"

"Organized all of this before we knew that you wanted to get into my pants? Well, panties, for the moment. Yes, yes we did. It was all Darcy's idea, actually. Well, hers, Natasha and Pepper's."

"Maybe we should just kick Fury out and let those three run SHIELD."

"Believe it or not, that's actually one of the contingency plans if anything happens to the Director. Though, Agent Hill would have to be taken out of the equation before Pepper and Darcy would be put in positions of authority."

"Huh." Clint finished his drink and set the empty glass down, holding up a palm to stop the waiter who appeared as if from nowhere to replace it. "I'd have thought it would be lower on the list than that."

"Considering the security clearances that all three of them hold, not to mention that Miss Potts has been running Stark Industries for the better part of a decade, it's not that surprising, really."

"I guess not."

"I also get the impression that you're avoiding the subject." Phil informed him, sipping at his drink once more, leaving the ball firmly in Clint's court.

Clint's frown deepened, and his nostrils flared, the hand resting on the table suddenly clenched into a fist.

"So you only got the message tonight?"

"I only _read_ the message half an hour ago." Phil clarified, and Clint's expression cleared somewhat, his hand relaxing.

"And you still came up here, knowing that Pepper had demanded my presence on pain of locking me out of every shooting range within forty miles?"

"Yes, Clint. I still came up here knowing you were waiting."

"So..."

"So, what response are you looking for?"

"Hell, Phil, I don't even know." Clint admitted, running a hand through his hair then grimacing when he realised there was product in it, reaching for a napkin to clean it off.

"Okay, what about... me too?"

Clint's head whipped up at that, and he stopped trying to clean the gel from his fingers, leaving the napkin stuck to his palm.

"Phil, you better not be fucking with me right now." He muttered, voice low as he took a half-step forward, right into Phil's personal space, almost backing him up against the small table they were standing at.

"You know that I rarely joke about anything, Clint." Phil told him, meeting Clint's eyes steadily, glad he'd agreed to heels because they meant he was almost the same height he'd been before the gender-swap.

"Good."

Phil had about .2 of a second to prepare himself, this time, and thankfully it was long enough to stop himself from freezing up completely as Clint leaned in and kissed him, reaching up one calloused hand to slide his fingers around the side of Phil's neck, his thumb grazing along Phil's jawline as the kiss deepened, lips parting and Phil felt himself gasp as he tasted scotch and tonic water on Clint's tongue.

"Oh, thank Christ for that." Came a voice from halfway across the rooftop, and Clint drew back slowly, not pulling himself entirely out of Phil's space, keeping his hand on Phil's neck and pressing their foreheads together.

"I think we just cost Tony fifty bucks." Clint told him, grinning.

"I know for a fact that we just _won_ Darcy five hundred." Phil shot back, matching the grin, lifting his own hand to trace his own fingers along Clint's collar and higher up his neck.

"Worth it?" Clint cocked his head a little to one side in question.

"Completely."

"Want to get out of here?"

"Oh, hell yeah."

 


End file.
